P   R 

4891 

L2 

L6 

1870 

MAIN 


•"•'  • '  ''••.••:- 


LONDON  LYRICS 


LONDON    LYRICS 


BY  FREDERICK  LOCKER 


BOSTON 
FIELDS,    OSGOOD,    AND    CO. 

1870 


LONDON  : 

PRINTED  BY  VIRTUE  AND  CO., 
CITY  ROAD. 


LI 
it, 


DEDICATION.  M  A  ^  U 


I  PAUSE  upon  the  threshold,  O  most  dear, 

To  write  thy  name  ;  so  may  my  book  acquire 
One  golden  leaf.     For  Some  yet  sojourn  here 

Who  come  and  go  in  homeliest  attire, 
Unknown,  or  only  by  the  few  who  see 

The  cross  they  bear,  the  good  that  they  have  wrought  : 
Of  such  art  thou,  and  I  have  found  in  thee 

Truth  and  the  love  that  HE,  the  MASTER,  taught  ;    . 
Thou  likest  thy  humble  poet  :  canst  thou  say 
With  truth,  my  dearest,  "  And  I  like  his  lay  ?  " 

ROME,  May,  1862. 


248957 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Castle  in  th«  Air 3 

The  Old  Cradle 9 

O  Tempera  mutantur ! 1 1 

Piccadilly 13 

The  Old  Government  Clerk 15 

Arcadia 18 

The  Pilgrims  of  Pall  Mall 23 

The  Russet  Pitcher 26 

The  Fairy  Rose 30 

Circumstance 32 

A  Wish 33 

Geraldine  Green — 

1.  The  Serenade 35 

2.  My  Life  is  a .......  36 

Vanity  Fair         .........  38 

Bramble -Rise 40 

Old  Letters 44 

Susan — 

1.  The  Alder  Trees 46 

2.  A  Kind  Providence 48 

My  First-born 49 

The  Widow's  Mite 51 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

St.  George's,  Hanover  Square 52 

Vx  Victis 53 

A  Human  Skull 57 

To  my  Old  Friend  Postumus 59 

The  Victoria  Cross     .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .61 

"  I  might  have  been  more  kind  "         .         .         .         .         .64 

The  Angora  Cat          ........     66 

Reply  to  a  Letter  enclosing  a  Lock  of  Hair        .         .         .68 
The  Bear  Pit      .         .         ...         .         .         .         .72 

My  Neighbour  Rose  ........     74 

The  Old  Oak  Tree  at  Hatfield  Broadoak     .         .         .         .78 

To  my  Grandmother  .         ......         .         .83 

The  Skeleton  in  the  Cupboard 86 

Glycere       .  .         .         .......         .89 

The  Crossing- Sweeper 91 

A  Song  that  was  never  sung       ...         .         .         .94 

On  an  Old  Muff          .         .....         .         .         .97 

An  Invitation  to  Rome,  and  the  Reply — 

1.  The  Invitation        ...... 

2.  The  Reply 

Geraldine    . 

The  Housemaid .         .         .         .... 

The  Jester's  Plea 

To  my  Mistress  .         .         .         .         .         .         . 

My  Mistress's  Boots   ....... 

The  Rose  and  the  Ring 

1863   .  

Mrs.  Smith 

Janet 


CONTENTS.  ix 

PAGE 

Implora  Pace      .........  134 

Sir  Gyles  Gyles 136 

Mr.  Placid's  Flirtation 141 

To  Parents  and  Guardians 145 

Beggars 148 

Little  Pitcher 151 

Advice  to  a  Poet 153 

An  Aspiration 159 

Geraldine  and  I           ........  161 

Her  Letters         .........  163 

The  Old  Shepherd— 

1.  On  the  Hills 165 

2.  At  Home 166 

St.  James's  Street 167 

Rotten  Row 1 70 

A  Nice  Correspondent !       .        .        .        .        .        .         .  1 73 

The  Silent  Pool  / 176 

Misgivings 178 

On  an  Old  Buffer 180 

To  Lina  Oswald 182 

On  "A  Portrait  of  a  Lady" 184 

The  Jester's  Moral 186 

Notes 191 


PUBLISHED  IN  1857 


THE  CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR. 

YOU  shake  your  saucy  curls,  and  vow 
I  build  no  airy  castles  now ; 
You  smile,  and  you  are  thinking  too, 
He's  nothing  else  on  earth  to  do. 

It  needs  Romance,  my  Lady  Fair, 
To  build  a  Castle  in  the  Air  : 
Ethereal  brick,  and  rainbow  beam, 
The  gossamer  of  Fancy's  dream ; 
And  much  the  architect  may  lack 
Who  labours  in  the  Zodiac 
To  rear  what  I,  from  chime  to  chime, 
Attempted  once  upon  a  time. 

My  Castle  was  a  gay  retreat 

In  Air,  that  somewhat  gusty  shire, 

A  cherub's  model  country  seat, — 
Could  model  cherub  such  require. 

Nor  twinge  nor  tax  existence  tortured, 

Even  the  cherubs  spared  my  orchard ! 


THX    CASTLE    IN   THE   AIR. 

No  worm  destroyed  the  gourd  I  planted, 
And  showers  came  when  rain  was  wanted. 
I  own'd  a  tract  of  purple  mountain, 
A  sweet  mysterious  haunted  fountain, 
A  terraced  lawn,  a  summer  lake, 

By  sun-  or  moon-beam  always  burnish'd ; 
And  then  my  cot,  by  some  mistake, 

Unlike  most  cots,  was  neatly  furnish'd — 
A  trellis'd  porch,  a  pictured  hall, 
A  Hebe  laughing  from  the  wall ; 

Frail  vases,  Attic  and  Cathay ; 
While  under  arms  and  armour  wreath'd 
In  trophied  guise,  the  marble  breathed, 

A  peering  faun — a  startled  fay. 
And  flowers  that  Love's  own  language  spoke, 
Than  these  less  eloquent  of  smoke, 
And  not  so  dear.     The  price  in  town 
Is  half  a  rose-bud — half-a-crown ! 

And  cabinets  and  chandeliers, 

The  legacy  of  courtly  years ; 

Stain'd  windows  dark,  and  pillow'd  light, 

Soft  sofas,  where  the  Sybarite, 

In  bliss  reclining,  might  devour 

The  best  last  novel  of  the  hour. 

On  silken  cushion,  laced  and  pearl'd, 

A  shaggy  pet  from  Skye  was  curl'd ; 

While  drowsy-eyed,  would  dozing  swing 

A  parrot  in  his  golden  ring. 


THE    CASTLE    IN    THE   AIR. 

All  these  I  saw  one  happy  day, 

And  more  than  now  I  care  to  name ; 

Here,  lately  shut,  that  work-box  lay, 
There  stood  your  own  embroidery  frame. 

And  over  this  piano  bent 

A  Form  from  some  pure  region  lent. 

Her  auburn  tresses  darkly  shone 

In  lovely  clusters,  like  your  own; 

And  as  her  fingers  touch'd  the  keys, 

How  strangely  they  resembled  these  ! 

Yes,  you,  you  only,  Lady  Fair, 
Adorn'd  my  Castle  in  the  Air, 
And  life,  without  the  least  foundation, 
Became  a  charming  occupation. 
We  heard,  with  much  sublime  disdain, 
The  far-off  thunder  of  Cockaigne ; 
And  saw,  through  rifts  of  silver  cloud, 
The  rolling  smoke  that  hid  the  crowd. 
With  souls  released  from  earthly  tether, 
We  gazed  upon  the  moon  together. 
Our  sympathy  from  night  to  noon 
Rose  crescent  with  that  crescent  moon ; 
The  night  was  briefer  than  the  song, 
And  happy  as  the  day  was  long. 
We  lived  and  loved  in  cloudless  climes, 
And  even  died  (in  verse)  sometimes. 

Yes,  you,  you  only,  Lady  Fair, 
Adorn'd  my  Castle  in  the  Air. 


THE   CASTLE    IN    THE   AIR. 

Now,  tell  me,  could  you  dwell  content 
In  such  a  baseless  tenement  ? 
Or  could  so  delicate  a  flower 
Exist  in  such  a  breezy  bower  ? 
Because,  if  you  would  settle  in  it, 
Twere  built  for  love  in  half  a  minute. 

What's  love  ?    Why  love  (for  two),  at  best, 

Is  only  a  delightful  jest ; 

As  sad  for  one  as  bad  for  three, — 

I  wish  you'd  come  and  jest  with  me. 

You  shake  your  head  and  wonder  why 

The  cynosure  of  dear  Mayfair 
Should  lend  me  even  half  a  sigh 

Towards  building  Castles  in  the  Air. 
"  I've  music,  books,  and  all  you  say, 
To  make  the  gravest  lady  gay. 
I'm  told  my  essays  show  research, 
My  sketches  have  endow'd  a  church ; 
I've  partners  who  have  brilliant  parts — 
I've  lovers  who  have  broken  hearts. 
Poor  Polly  would  not  care  to  fly, 
And  Mop,  you  know,  was  born  in  Skye. 
To  realise  your  tete-b-tete 
Might  jeopardise  a  giddy  pate ; 
Indeed,  my  much-devoted  vassal, 
I'm  sorry  that  you've  built  your  Castle  !" 

And  is  this  all  we  gain  by  fancies 

For  noonday  dreams  and  waking  trances  ; 


THE   CASTLE    IN    THE    AIR. 

The  dreams  that  brought  poor  souls  mishap 
When  Baby  Time  was  fond  of  pap ; 
And  still  will  cheat  with  feigning  joys, 
While  beauty  smiles,  and  men  are  boys  ? 
The  blooming  rose  conceals  an  asp, 
And  bliss,  coquetting,  flies  the  grasp. 
How  vain  the  toy  that  pleased  at  first ! 
But  myrtles  fade,  and  bubbles  burst. 
The  cord  has  snapt  that  held  my  kite ; — 
My  friends  won't  read  the  books  I  write, 

And  wonder  bards  can  be  so  spleeny  ! 
I  dance,  but  dancing's  not  the  thing ; 
They  will  not  listen,  though  I  sing, 

"  Fra  poco  "  almost  like  Rubini ! 
The  poet's  harp  beyond  my  reach  is, 
The  senate  will  not  stand  my  speeches ; 
I  risk  a  jest, — its  point  of  course 
Is  marr'd  by  some  disturbing  force ; 
I  doubt  the  friends  that  Fortune  gave  me ; 
But  have  I  friends  from  whom  to  save  me  ? 

Farewell !  can  aught  for  her  be  will'd 
Whose  every  wish  is  all  fulfill'd  ? 
Farewell !  could  wishing  weave  a  spell, 
There's  promise  in  those  words,  fare  well. 

The  lady's  smile  show'd  no  remorse, — 
"  My  worthless  toy  has  lost  its  gilding," 

I  murmur'd  with  pathetic  force, 

"  And  here's  an  end  of  castle-building ; " 


THE   CASTLE    IN    THE    AIR. 

Then  strode  away  in  mood  morose, 

To  blame  the  Sage  of  Careless  Close ; 

He  trifled  with  my  tale  of  sorrow, — 

"  What's  marr'd  to-day  is  made  to-morrow ; 

Romance  can  roam  not  far  from  home, 

Knock  gently,  she  must  answer  soon ; 
I'm  sixty-five,  and  yet  I  strive 

To  hang  my  garland  on  the  moon/' 


1848. 


THE  OLD  CRADLE. 

AND  this  was  your  Cradle  ?  Why  surely,  my  Jenny, 
Such  slender  dimensions  go  clearly  to  show 
You  were  an  exceedingly  small  picaninny 
Some  nineteen  or  twenty  short  summers  ago. 

Your  baby-days  flow'd  in  a  much-troubled  channel ; 

I  see  you  as  then  in  your  impotent  strife, 
A  tight  little  bundle  of  wailing  and  flannel, 

Perplex'd  with  that  newly-found  fardel  call'd  Life. 

To  hint  at  an  infantine  frailty's  a  scandal ; 

Let  bygones  be  bygones,  and  somebody  knows 
It  was  bliss  such  a  Baby  to  dance  and  to  dandle, 

Your  cheeks  were  so  velvet,  so  rosy  your  toes. 

Ay,  here  is  your  Cradle  ;  and  Hope,  at  times  lonely, 
With  Love  now  is  watching  beside  it,  I  know. 

They  guard  the  small  nest  you  inherited  only 
Some  nineteen  or  twenty  short  summers  ago. 


10  THE   OLD    CRADLE. 

It  is  Hope  gilds  the  future,  Love  welcomes  it  smiling ; 

Thus  wags  the  old  world,  therefore  stay  not  to  ask, 
"  My  future  bids  fair,  is  my  future  beguiling?" 

If  mask'd,  still  it  pleases — then  raise  not  the  mask. 

Is  Life  a  poor  coil  some  would  gladly  be  doffing? 

He  is  riding  post-haste  who  their  wrongs  will  adjust; 
For  at  most  'tis  a  footstep  from  cradle  to  coffin — 

From  a  spoonful  of  pap  to  a  mouthful  of  dust. 

Then  smile  as  your  future  is  smiling,  my  Jenny ! 

I  see  you,  except  for  those  infantine  woes, 
Little  changed  since  you  were  but  a  small  picaninny 

— Your  cheeks  were  so  velvet,  so  rosy  your  toes  ! 

Ay,  here  is  your  Cradle !  much,  much  to  my  liking, 
Though  nineteen  or  twenty  long  winters  have  sped ; 

But  hark !  as  I'm  talking  there's  six  o'clock  striking, — 
It  is  time  JENNY'S  BABY  should  be  in  its  bed. 


1853- 


O  TEMPORA  MUTANTITR  ! 

YES,  here,  once  more  a  traveller, 
I  find  the  Angel  Inn, 
Where  landlord,  maids,  and  serving-men 

Receive  me  with  a  grin : 
They  surely  can't  remember  me, 
My  hair  is  grey  and  scanter ; 
I'm  changed,  so  changed  since  I  was  here- 
"  O  tempora  mutantur  ! " 

The  Angel  is  not  alter'd  since 

The  sunny  month  of  June, 
That  brought  me  here  with  Pamela 

To  spend  our  honeymoon. 
I  recollect  it  down  to  e'en 

The  shape  of  this  decanter, — 
We've  since  been  both  much  put  about — 

"  O  tempora  mutantur  ! " 

Ay,  there's  the  clock,  and  looking-glass 

Reflecting  me  again ; 
She  vow'd  her  love  was  very  fair, 

I  see  I'm  very  plain. 


O   TEMPORA   MUTANTUR  ! 

And  there's  that  daub  of  Prince  Leeboo  : 

'Twas  Pamela's  fond  banter 
To  fancy  it  resembled  me — 

"  O  tempora  mutantur  !  " 

The  curtains  have  been  dyed ;  but  there, 

Unbroken,  is  the  same, 
The  very  same  crack'd  pane  of  glass 

On  which  I  scratched  her  name. 
Yes,  there's  her  tiny  flourish  still, 

It  once  could  so  enchant  her 
To  link  two  happy  names  in  one — 

"  O  tempora  mutantur  !  " 


The  Pilgrim  sees  an  empty  chair 

Where  Pamela  once  sat ; 
It  may  be  she  is  past  all  care, 

It  might  be  worse  than  that ! 
Some  die,  and  then  some  best  of  men 

Have  met  with  a  supplanter ; — * 
I  wish  that  I  could  change  this  cry, 

"  O  tempora  mutantur  !  " 

1856. 


PICCADILLY. 

PICCADILLY!     Shops,     palaces,     bustle,     and 
breeze ; 

The  whirring  of  wheels,  and  the  murmur  of  trees ; 
By  night  or  by  day,  whether  noisy  or  stilly, 
Whatever  my  mood  is — I  love  Piccadilly. 

Wet  nights,   when    the    gas    on    the    pavement    is 

streaming, 
And    young   Love   is   watching,    and    old    Love    is 

dreaming, 

And  Beauty  is  whirling  to  conquest,  where  shrilly 
Cremona  makes  nimble  thy  toes,  Piccadilly. ! 

Bright  days,  when  a  stroll  is  my  afternoon  wont, 

And  I  meet  all  the  people  I  do  know  or  don't: 

Here   is    jolly    old    Brown,   and   his    fair    daughter 

Lillie;— 
No  wonder  some  pilgrims  affect  Piccadilly  ! 

See  yonder  pair  riding,  how  fondly  they  saunter ! 
She  smiles  on  her  poet,  whose  heart's  in  a  canter : 
Some  envy  her  spouse,  and  some  covet  her  filly, 
He  envies  them  both, — he's  an  ass,  Piccadilly ! 


1 4  PICCADILLY. 

Were  I  that  gay  bride,  with  a  slave  at  my  feet, 
I  would  choose  me  a  house  in  my  favourite  street ; 
Yes  or  no — I  would  carry  my  point,  willy-nilly  : 
If  «  no,"— pick  a  quarrel ;  if  "  yes,"— Piccadilly ! 

From  Primrose  balcony,  long  ages  ago, 

"  Old  Q."  sat  at  gaze, — who  now  passes  below? 

A  frolicsome  statesman,  the  Man  of  the  Day ; 

A  laughing  philosopher,  gallant  and  gay ; 

No  darling  of  fortune  more  manfully  trod, 

Full  of  years,  full  of  fame,  and  the  world  at  his  nod  : 

Can  the   thought  reach  his  heart,  and  then  leave  it 

more  chilly — 
"Old  P.  or  Old  Q., — I  must  quit  Piccadilly?" 

Life  is  chequer'd;  a  patchwork  of  smiles  and  of  frowns ; 

We  value  its  ups,  let  us  muse  on  its  downs ; 

There's   a  side  that  is  bright,  it  will  then  turn  us 

t'other, 

One  turn,  if  a  good  one,  deserves  yet  another. 
These  downs  are  delightful,  these  ups  are  not  hilly, — 
Let  us  turn  one  more  turn  ere  we  quit  Piccadilly. 

1856. 


THE  OLD  GOVERNMENT  CLERK. 

WE  knew  an  old  scribe,  it  was  "  once  on  a  time," 
An  era  to  set  sober  datists  despairing ; 
Then  let  them  despair !  Darby  sat  in  a  chair 

Near  the  Cross  that  gave  name  to  the  village  of 
Charing. 

Though  silent  and  lean,  Darby  was  not  malign, 
What  hair  he  had  left  was  more  silver  than  sable  ; 

He  had  also  contracted  a  curve  in  his  spine, 
From  bending  too  constantly  over  a  table. 

His  pay  and  expenditure,  quite  in  accord, 

Were  both  on  the  strictest  economy  founded  ; 

His  masters  were  known  as  the  Sealing-wax  Board, 
And  they  ruled  where  red  tape  and  snug  places 
abounded. 

In  his  heart  he  look'd  down  on  this  dignified  knot ; 

For  why  ?  The  forefather  of  one  of  these  senators, — 
A  rascal  concerned  in  the  Gunpowder  Plot, — 

Had  been  barber-surgeon  to  Darby's  progenitors. 


1 6  THE    OLD    GOVERNMENT    CLERK. 

Poor  fool,  what  is  life  ?    A  vagary  of  luck ! 

Still,  for  thirty  long  years — of  genteel  destitution — 
He'd  been  writing  State  Papers,  which  means  he  had 
stuck 

A  few  heads  and  some  tails  to  much  circumlocution. 

This  sounds  rather  weary  and  dreary ;  but,  no  ! 

Though  strictly  inglorious,  his  days  were  quiescent. 
His  red-tape  was  tied  in  a  true-lover's  bow 

Every  night  when  returning  to  Rosemary  Crescent. 

There  Joan  meets  him  smiling,  the  young  ones  are 
there ; 

His  coming  is  bliss  to  the  half-dozen  wee  things ; 
The  dog  and  the  cat  have  a  greeting  to  spare, 

And  Phyllis,  neat-handed,  is  laying  the  tea-things. 

East  wind,  sob  eerily  !     Sing,  kettle,  cheerily  ! 

Baby's  abed,  but  its  father  will  rock  it ; 
His  little  ones  boast  their  permission  to  toast 

The  nice  cake  that  good  fellow  brings  home  in  his 
pocket. 

This  greeting  the  silent  old  Clerk  understands, 

Now  his  friends  he  can  love,  had  he  foes  he  could    I 

mock  them ; 
So  met,  so  surrounded,  his  bosom  expands, — 

Some  tongues  have  more  need  of  such  scenes  to 
unlock  them. 


THE  OLD  GOVERNMENT  CLERK.          17 


And  Darby,  at  least,  is  resign'd  to  his  lot ; 

And  Joan,  rather  proud  of  the  sphere  he's  adorning, 
Has  well-nigh  forgotten  that  Gunpowder  Plot, — 

And  he  won't  recall  it  till  ten  the  next  morning. 

A  kindly  good  man,  quite  a  stranger  to  fame, 

His  heart  still  is  green,  though  his  head  shows  a 
hoar  lock ; 

Perhaps  his  particular  star  is  to  blame, — 

It  may  be,  he  never  took  Time  by  the  forelock. 

A  day  must  arrive  when,  in  pitiful  case, 

He  will  drop  from  his  Branch,  like  a  fruit  more  than 

mellow ; 
Is  he  yet  to  be  found  in  his  usual  place  ? 

Or  is  he  already  forgotten,  poor  fellow  ? 

If  still  at  his  duty  he  soon  will  arrive; 

He  passes  this  turning  because  it  is  shorter ; 
If  not  within  sight  as  the  clock's  going  five, 

We  shall  see  him  before  it  is  chiming  the  quarter. 

1856. 


ARCADIA. 

THE  healthy-wealthy-wise  affirm 
That  early  birds  obtain  the  worm, — 
The  worm  rose  early  too  ! 
Who  scorns  his  couch  should  glean  by  rights 
A  world  of  pleasant  sounds  and  sights 
That  vanish  with  the  dew  : 

Bright  Phosphor  from  his  watch  released 
Now  fading  from  the  purple  east, 

As  morning  gets  the  stronger ; 
The  comely  cock  that  vainly  strives 
To  crow  from  sleep  his  drowsy  wives, 

Who  would  be  roosting  longer. 

Uxorious  Chanticleer ! — And  hark  ! 
Upraise  thine  eyes,  and  find  the  lark, 

The  matutine  musician 
Who  heavenward  soars  on  rapture's  wings, 
Though  sought,  unseen, — who  mounts  and  sings 

In  musical  derision. 


ARCADIA.  19 

From  sea-girt  pile,  where  nobles  dwell, 
A  daughter  waves  her  sire  farewell 

Across  the  sunlit  water  : 
All  these  were  heard  or  seen  by  one 
Who  stole  a  march  upon  that  sun, 

And  then — upon  that  daughter  ! 

This  dainty  maid,  the  county's  pride, 
A  white  lamb  trotting  at  her  side, 

Had  tript  it  through  the  park ; 
A  fond  and  gentle  foster-dam, 
Maybe  she  slumber'd  with  her  lamb, 

Thus  rising  with  the  lark  ! 

The  lambkin  frisk'd,  the  lady  fain 
Would  coax  him  back,  she  call'd  in  vain, 

The  rebel  proved  unruly  ; 
The  sun  came  streaming  o'er  the  lake ; 
One  followed  for  the  maiden's  sake, 

A  happy  fellow  truly ! 


The  maid  gave  chase,  the  lambkin  ran 
As  only  woolly  truant  can 

Who  never  felt  a  crook ; 
But  stay'd  at  length,  as  if  disposed 
To  drink,  where  tawny  sands  disclosed 

The  margin  of  a  brook. 


ARCADIA. 

His  mistress,  who  had  followed  fast, 
Cried,  "  Little  rogue,  you're  caught  at  last ; 

I'm  cleverer  than  you." 
She  then  the  wanderer  convey'd 
Where  branching  shrubs,  in  tangled  shade, 

Protected  her  from  view. 


And  timidly  she  glanced  around, 
All  fearful  lest  the  slightest  sound 

Might  mortal  footfall  be ; 
Then  shrinkingly  she  stept  aside 
One  moment — and  her  garter  tied 

The  truant  to  a  tree. 

Perhaps  the  world  would  like  to  know 
The  hue  of  this  enchanting  bow, 

And  if  'twere  silk  or  lace ; 
No,  not  from  him  ! — be  pleased  to  think 
It  might  be  either — blue  or  pink, 

'Twas  tied  with  maiden  grace. 

Suffice  it  that  the  child  was  fair 
As  Una  sweet,  with  golden  hair, 

And  come  of  high  degree ; 
And  though  her  feet  were  pure  from  stain, 
She  turn'd  her  to  the  brook  again, 

And  laved  them  dreamingly. 


ARCADIA. 

Awhile  she  sat  in  maiden  mood, 

And  watch'd  the  shadows  from  the  wood, 

That  varied  on  the  stream ; 
And  as  each  pretty  foot  she  dipp'd, 
The  little  waves  rose  crystal-lipp'd 

In  welcome,  it  would  seem. 


Yet  reveries  are  fleeting  things, 
That  come  and  go  on  whimsy  wings  ; 

As  kindly  Fancy  taught  her 
The  Fair  her  tender  day-dream  nurs'd ; 
But  when  the  light-blown  bubble  burst, 

She  wearied  of  the  water ; 

Betook  her  to  the  spot  where  yet 
Safe  tethered  lay  her  captured  pet, 

To  roving  tastes  a  martyr  ; 
But  all  at  once  she  saw  a  change, 
And  scream'd  (it  seem'd  so  very  strange  !) — 

Cried  Echo,  "Where's  my  garter?" 

The  blushing  girl  her  lamb  led  home  ; 
Perhaps  she  thought,  "  No  more  we'll  roam 

At  peep  of  day  together ; 
Or  if  we  do,  why  then  it's  plain 
We  will  not  venture  forth  again 

Without  an  extra  tether  !" 


ARCADIA. 

A  pure  white  stone  will  mark  this  morn, 
He  wears  a  prize,  one  gladly  worn, 

Love's  gage,  though  not  intended ; 
Indeed  he'll  guard  it  near  his  heart, 
Till  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars  depart, 

And  chivalry  has  ended ! 

Dull  World  !     He  now  resigns  to  you 
The  tinsel  star,  and  ribbon  blue, 

That  pride  for  folly  barters  : 
He'll  bear  his  cross  amid  your  jars, 
His  ribbon  prize,  and  thank  his  stars 

He  does  not  crave  your  garters. 


1849- 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  PALL  MALL. 

MY  little  friend,  so  small  and  neat, 
Whom  years  ago  I  used  to  meet 
In  Pall  Mall  daily, 
How  cheerily  you  tript  away 
To  work,  it  might  have  been  to  play, 
You  tript  so  gaily. 

And  Time  trips  too.     This  moral  means 
You  then  were  midway  in  the  teens 

That  I  was  crowning ; 
We  never  spoke,  but  when  I  smiled 
At  morn  or  eve,  I  know,  dear  Child, 

You  were  not  frowning. 

Each  morning  when  we  met,  I  think 
One  sentiment  us  both  did  link, 

Nor  joy,  nor  sorrow ; 
And  then  at  eve,  experience-taught, 
Our  hearts  were  lighter  for  the  thought, — 

We  meet  to-morrow  ! 


24  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    PALL    MALL. 

And  you  were  poor !  so  poor  !  and  why  ? 
How  kind  to  come,  it  was  for  my 

Especial  grace  meant ! 
Had  you  a  chamber  near  the  stars, 
A  bird,  some  treasured  plants  in  jars, 

About  your  casement  ? 


I  often  wander  up  and  down, 

When  morning  bathes  the  silent  town 

In  golden  glory : 
Perhaps,  unwittingly,  I've  heard 
Your  thrilling-toned  canary-bird 

From  that  third  story. 

I've  seen  some  change  since  last  we  met — 
A  patient  little  seamstress  yet, 

On  small  means  striving, 
Are  you  (if  Love  such  luck  allows) 
Some  lucky  fellow's  little  spouse  ? — 

Is  baby  thriving  ? 

My  heart  grows  chill — can  soul  like  thine 
Have  tired  of  this  dear  world  of  mine, 

And  snapt  Life's  fetter  ? 
To  find  a  world  whose  promised  bliss 
Is  better  than  the  best  of  this, — 

And  is  it  better  ? 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    PALL   MALL.  25 

Sometimes  to  Pall  Mall  I  repair, 
And  see  the  damsels  passing  there ; — 

But  if  I  try  to 

Obtain  one  glance,  they  look  discreet, 
As  though  they'd  some  one  else  to  meet ; — 

As  have  not  /  too  ? 

Yet  still  I  often  think  upon 

Our  many  meetings,  come  and  gone  ! 

July — December ! 
Now  let  us  make  a  tryst,  and  when, 
Dear  little  soul,  we  meet  again, — 
The  mansion  is  preparing — then 

Thy  Friend  remember  ! 


1856. 


THE  RUSSET  PITCHER. 

"  The  pot  goeth  so  long  to  the  water  till  at  length  it  cometh 
broken  home." 

AWAY,  ye  simple  ones,  away  ! 
Bring  no  vain  fancies  hither  ; 
The  brightest  dreams  of  youth  decay, 
The  fairest  roses  wither. 

Ay,  since  this  fountain  first  upwell'd, 

And  Dryad  learnt  to  drink, 
Knit  hand  in  hand,  have  lovers  held 

Sweet  parley  at  its  brink. 

From  youth  to  age  this  waterfall 

Most  tunefully  flows  on, 
But  where,  ay,  tell  me  where  are  all 

The  constant  lovers  gone  ? 

The  falcon  on  the  turtle  preys, 
And  beardless  vows  are  brittle  ; 

The  brightest  dream  of  youth  decays, — 
Ah,  love  is  good  for  little. 


THE    RUSSET   PITCHER.  27 

"  Fair  maiden,  set  thy  pitcher  down, 

And  heed  a  truth  neglected  : — 
The  more  this  sorry  world  is  known. 

The  less  it  is  respected. 

"  Though  youth  is  ardent,  gay,  and  bold, 

It  flatters  and  beguiles  ; 
Though  Giles  is  young, — and  I  am  old, 

Ne'er  trust  thy  heart  to  Giles. 

"  Thy  pitcher  may  some  luckless  day 

Be  broken  coming  hither ; 
Thy  doting  slave  may  prove  a  knave — 

The  fairest  roses  wither." 

She  laugh'd  outright,  she  scorn'd  him  quite, 

She  deftly  fill'd  her  pitcher; 
For  that  dear  sight  an  anchorite 

Would  deem  himself  thericher. 

Ill-fated  damsel !  go  thy  way, 

Thy  lover's  vows  are  lither  ; 
The  brightest  dreams  of  youth  decay, 

The  fairest  roses  wither. 

***** 

These  days  were  soon  the  days  of  yore  ; 

Six  summers  pass,  and  then 
That  musing  man  would  see  once  more 

The  fountain  in  the  glen ; 


28  THE   RUSSET   PITCHER. 

Again  would  stray  where  once  he  stray'd, 
Through  copse  and  quiet  dell, 

Half  hoping  too  to  meet  the  maid 
Pass  tripping  from  the  well. 

No  light  step  comes,  but,  evil-starr'd, 

He  finds  a  mournful  token, 
There  lies  a  russet  pitcher  marr'd, — 

The  damsel's  pitcher  broken  ! 

Profoundly  moved,  that  muser  cried, 
"  The  spoiler  has  been  hither  • 

O  would  the  maiden  first  had  died, — 
The  fairest  roses  wither  !  " 

He  turn'd  from  that  unholy  ground, 
His  world-worn  bosom  throbbing ; 

A  bow-shot  thence  a  child  he  found, 
The  little  man  was  sobbing. 

He  gently  stroked  that  curly  head, — 
"  My  child,  what  brings  thee  hither  ? 

Weep  not,  my  simple  child,"  he  said, 
"  Or  let  us  weep  together. 

"  Thy  world,  I  ween,  is  gay  and  green, 

A  garden  undefiled ; 
Thy  thought  should  run  on  mirth  and  fun,- 

Where  dwellest  thou,  my  child?" 


THE   RUSSET   PITCHER.  29 

'Twas  then  the  rueful  urchin  spoke : 

"  My  daddy's  Giles  the  ditcher, 
I  fetch  the  water, — O  I've  broke— 

I've  broke  my  mammy's  pitcher !  " 


THE  FAIRY  ROSE. 

are   plenty   of   roses"  (the    patriarch 
JL       speaks) — 

"  Alas  !  not  for  me — on  your  lips,  and  your  cheeks ; 
Sweet  maiden,  rose-laden — enough  and  to  spare, — 
Spare,  spare  me  the  Rose  that  you  wear  in  your  hair." 

"  O  raise  not  thy  hand,"  cries  the  girl,  "nor  suppose 
That  I  ever  can  part  with  this  beautiful  Rose : 
The  bloom  is  a  gift  of  the  Fays,  who  declare  it 
Will  shield  me  from  sorrow  as  long  as  I  wear  it. 

"  '  Entwine  it,'  said  they,  *  with  your  curls  in  a  braid, 
It  will  blossom  in  winter — it  never  will  fade ; 
And,  if  tempted  to  rove,  recollect,  as  you  hie, 
Where  you're  dying  to  go — 'twill  be  going  to  die.' 

"  And  breathe  not,  old  man,  such  a  mournful  '  heigho,' 
Dost  think  that  I  have  not  the  will  to  say  l  No  ?' 
I  could  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  a  prayer — to  a  vow, 
Though  the  suitor  were  far  more  persuasive  than  thou !" 


THE   FAIRY   ROSE.  31 

The  damsel  pass'd  on  with  a  confident  smile, 
The  old  man  extended  his  walk  for  awhile ; 
His  musings  were  trite,  and  their  burden,  forsooth — 
The  wisdom  of  age,  and  the  folly  of  youth. 

Noon  comes,  and  noon  goes: — all  the  fields  are  in 

shade 

As  the  patriarch  strolls  in  the  path  of  the  maid ; 
The  corn's  in  the  ear,  and  awaiting  the  sickle, 
The  evening  is  fair — if  the  damsel  is  fickle. 

And  Echo  is  mute  to  his  leisurely  tread, — 
"  How  tranquil  is  nature  reposing  !  "  he  said  ; 
He  onward  advances,  and  Fate  seems  to  lead, — 
"How  lonely  !  "  quoth  he — it  is  lonely  indeed  ! 

He  gazes  around,  not  a  creature  is  there ; 
No  sound  on  the  ground,  and  no  voice  in  the  air ; 
But  fading  there  lies  a  poor  bloom  that  he  knows — 
"  Bad  luck  to  the  Fairy  that  gave  her  the  Rose  !" 

1853- 


CIRCUMSTANCE. 

THE   ORANGE. 

IT  ripen'd  by  the  river  banks, 
Where,  mask  and  moonlight  aiding, 
Don  Juans  play  their  pretty  pranks, 
Dark  Donnas  serenading. 

By  Moorish  damsel  it  was  pluck'd, 
Beneath  the  golden  day  there ; — 

By  swain  'twas  then  in  London  suck'd, 
Who  flung  the  peel  away  there. 

He  could  not  know  in  Pimlico, 

As  little  she  in  Seville, 
That  /  should  reel  upon  that  peel, 

And  wish  them  at  the  devil ! 


A  WISH. 

TO  the  south  of  the  church,  and  beneath  yonder 
yew, 

I  have  watch'd  two  child-lovers,  unseen ; 
More  than  once  were  they  there,  and  the  years  of  the 

two, 
When  united,  might  number  thirteen. 

They  sat  by  a  grave  that  had  never  a  stone 

The  name  of  the  dead  to  determine  ; 
It  was  Life  paying  Death  a  brief  visit — a  known 

And  a  notable  text  for  a  sermon. 

They  tenderly  prattled ;  ah,  what  did  they  say  ? 

The  turf  on  that  hillock  was  new  : 
Little  Friends,  did  ye  know  aught  of  death  or  decay  ? 

Could  the  dead  be  regardful  of  you  ? 

I  wish  to  believe,  and  believe  it  I  must, 
That  her  father  beneath  them  was  laid  : 

I  wish  to  believe — I  will  take  it  on  trust — 
That  father  knew  all  that  they  said. 
D 


34  A  WISH. 

My  own,  you  are  five,  very  nearly  the  age 

Of  that  poor  little  fatherless  child  ; 
Ay,  and  some  day  a  true-love  your  heart  will  engage, 

When  on  earth  I  my  last  may  have  smiled. 

Then  visit  my  grave,  like  a  good  little  lass, 

Where'er  it  may  happen  to  be ; 
And  if  any  daisies  should  peer  through  the  grass, 

O  be  sure  they  are  kisses  from  me. 

And  place  not  a  stone  to  distinguish  my  name, 

For  the  stranger  and  gossip  to  see ; 
But  come  with  your  lover,  as  these  lovers  came, 

And  talk  to  him  sweetly  of  me. 

And  while  you  are  smiling,  One  Greater  will  smile 
On  the  dear  little  daughter  He  gave ; 

—But  mind,  O  yes,  mind  you  are  happy  the  while — 
/  wish  you  to  visit  my  grave. 

1856. 


GERALDINE  GREEN, 
i. 

THE  SERENADE. 

LIGHT  slumber  is  quitting 
The  eyelids  it  prest ; 
The  fairies  are  flitting 

Who  charm'd  thee  to  rest. 
Where  night  dews  were  falling 

Now  feeds  the  wild  bee ; 
The  starling  is  calling, 
My  darling,  for  thee. 

The  wavelets  are  crisper 
That  thrill  the  shy  fern ; 

The  leaves  fondly  whisper, 
"  We  wait  thy  return." 


36  GERALDINE   GREEN. 

Arise  then,  and  hazy 
Distrust  from  thee  fling, 

For  sorrows  that  crazy 
To-morrows  may  bring. 

A  vague  yearning  smote  us, 
But  wake  not  to  weep ; 

My  bark,  Love,  shall  float  us 
Across  the  still  deep, 

To  isles  where  the  lotus 
Erst  lull'd  thee  to  sleep. 

1861. 


n. 

MY    LIFE    IS   A 


At  Worthing  an  exile  from  Geraldine  G , 

How  aimless,  how  wretched  an  exile  is  he  ! 
Promenades  are  not  even  prunella  and  leather 
To  lovers,  if  lovers  can't  foot  them  together. 

He  flies  the  parade ; — by  ocean  he  stands  ; 
He  traces  a  "  Geraldine  G."  on  the  sands  ; 
Only  "G. ! "  though  her  loved  patronymic  is  "Green/ 
I  will  not  betray  thee,  my  own  Geraldine. 


GERALDINE   GREEN.  37 

The  fortunes  of  men  have  a  time  and  a  tiae, 

And  Fate,  the  old  Fury,  will  not  be  denied ; 

That  name  was,  of  course,  soon  wiped  out  by  the  sea, — 

She  jilted  the  exile,  did  Geraldine  G. 

They  meet,  but  they  never  have  spoken  since  that ; 
He  hopes  she  is  happy, — he  knows  she  is  fat ; 
She  woo'd  on  the  shore,  now  is  wed  in  the  Strand,— 
And  7— it  was  I  wrote  her  name  on  the  sand. 

1854. 


VANITY  FAIR. 

V ANITAS  vanitatum  "  has  rung  in  the  ears 
Of  gentle  and  simple  for  thousands  of  years  ; 
The  wail  still  is  heard,  yet  its  notes  never  scare 
Either  simple  or  gentle  from  Vanity  Fair. 

I  often  hear  people  abusing  it,  yet 
There  the  young  go  to  learn  and  the  old  to  forget ; 
The  mirth  may  be  feigning,  the  sheen  may  be  glare, 
But  the  gingerbread's  gilded  in  Vanity  Fair. 

Old  Dives  there  rolls  in  his  chariot,  but  mind 
Atra  Cur  a  is  up  with  the  lacqueys  behind  ; 
Joan  trudges  with  Jack, — are  the  sweethearts  aware 
Of  the  trouble  that  waits  them  in  Vanity  Fair  ? 

We  saw  them  all  go,  and  we  something  may  learn 
Of  the  harvest  they  reap  when  we  see  them  return ; 
The  tree  was  enticing,  its  branches  are  bare, — 
Heigho  for  the  promise  of  Vanity  Fair  ! 


VANITY    FAIR.  39 

That  stupid  old  Dives,  once  honest  enough, 
His  honesty  sold  for  star,  ribbon,  and  stuff; 
And  Joan's  pretty  face  has  been  clouded  with  care 
Since  Jack  bought  her  ribbons  at  Vanity  Fair. 

Contemptible  Dives  !  too  credulous  Joan  ! 

Yet  we  all  have  a  Vanity  Fair  of  our  own  ; 

My  son,  you  have  yours,  but  you  need  not  despair, — 

I  own  I've  a  weakness  for  Vanity  Fair. 

Philosophy  halts,  wisest  counsels  are  vain, — 
We  go,  we  repent,  we  return  there  again ; 
To-night  you  will  certainly  meet  with  us  there— 
So  come  and  be  merry  in  Vanity  Fair. 

1852. 


BRAMBLE-RISE. 

WHAT  changes  greet  my  wistful  eyes 
In  quiet  little  Bramble- Rise, 
The  pride  of  all  the  shire  ! 
How  alter'd  is  each  pleasant  nook ; — 
And  used  the  dumpy  church  to  look 
So  dumpy  in  the  spire  ? 

This  village  is  no  longer  mine ; 

And  though  the  Inn  has  changed  its  sign, 

The  beer  may  not  be  stronger : 
The  river,  dwindled  by  degrees, 
Is  now  a  brook,  the  cottages 

Are  cottages  no  longer. 

The  mud  is  brick,  the  thatch  is  slate, 
The  pound  has  tumbled  out  of  date, 

And  all  the  trees  are  stunted : 
I'm  sure  these  thistles  once  grew  figs, 
These  geese  were  swans,  and  once  these  pigs 

More  musically  grunted. 


BRAMBLE-RISE.  41 

Where  boys  and  girls  pursued  their  sports 
A  locomotive  puffs  and  snorts, 

And  gets  my  malediction ; 
The  turf,  the  fairies — all  are  fled  ! 
The  ponds  have  shrunk,  and  tastes  have  spread 

For  photograph  and  fiction. 


Ah,  there's  a  face  I  know  again, 
Fair  Patty  trotting  down  the  lane 

To  fetch  a  pail  of  water ; 
Yes,  Patty !  still  I  much  suspect 
Tis  not  the  child  I  recollect, 

But  Patty,— Patty's  daughter ! 

And  has  she  too  outlived  the  spells 
Of  breezy  hills  and  silent  dells 

Where  childhood  loved  to  ramble  ? 
Then  Life  was  thornless  to  our  ken, 
And,  Bramble-Rise,  thy  hills  were  then 

A  rise  without  a  bramble. 


Whence  comes  the  change  ?  'Twere  easy  told 
That  some  grow  wise,  and  some  grow  cold, 

And  all  feel  time  and  trouble  : 
If  Life  an  empty  bubble  be, 
How  sad  are  those  who  will  not  see 

A  rainbow  in  the  bubble  ! 


42  BRAMBLE-RISE. 

And  senseless  too,  for  Madam  Fate 
Is  not  the  fickle  reprobate 

That  moody  sages  thought  her; 
My  heart  leaps  up,  and  I  rejoice 
As  falls  upon  my  ear  thy  voice, 

My  frisky  little  daughter. 

Come  hither,  Pussy,  perch  on  these 
Thy  most  unworthy  father's  knees, 

And  tell  him  all  about  it ! 
Are  dolls  but  bran  ?     Can  men  be  base  ? 
When  gazing  on  thy  blessed  face 

I'm  quite  prepared  to  doubt  it. 

O  may'st  thou  own,  my  winsome  elf, 
Some  day  a  pet  just  like  thyself, 

Her  sanguine  thoughts  to  borrow; 
Content  to  use  her  brighter  eyes, 
Accept  her  childish  ecstasies, — 

If  need  be,  share  her  sorrow  ! 

The  wisdom  of  thy  prattle  cheers 

This  heart ;  and  when  outworn  in  years, 

And  homeward  I  am  starting, 
Lead  me,  my  darling,  gently  down 
To  Life's  dim  strand :  the  skies  may  frown, 

— But  weep  not  for  our  parting. 


BRAMBLE-RISE.  43 

Though  Life  is  calPd  a  doleful  jaunt, 
With  sorrow  fraught,  in  sunshine  scant ; 
Though  earthly  joys,  the  wisest  grant, 

Have  no  enduring  basis ; 
It's  pleasant  in  this  lower  sphere 
(For  her  so  fresh,  for  me  so  drear) 
To  find  in  Puss,  my  daughter  dear, 

A  little  cool  oasis  ! 

April,  1857. 


OLD  LETTERS. 

OLD  letters  !  wipe  away  the  tear 
For  vows  and  wishes  vainly  worded ; 
A  pilgrim  finds  his  journal  here 

Since  first  his  youthful  loins  were  girded. 

Yes,  here  are  wails  from  Clapham  Grove ; 

How  could  philosophy  expect  us 
To  live  with  Dr.  Wise,  and  love 

Rice  pudding  and  the  Greek  Delectus  ? 

How  strange  to  commune  with  the  Dead ! 

Dead  joys,  dead  loves ; — and  wishes  thwarted ; 
Here's  cruel  proof  of  friendships  fled ; 

And  sad  enough  of  friends  departed. 

Yes,  here's  the  offer  that  I  wrote 

In  '33  to  Lucy  Diver ; 
And  here  John  Wylie's  begging  note, — 

He  never  paid  me  back  a  stiver. 


OLD    LETTERS.  45 

And  here  my  feud  with  Major  Spike, 
Our  bet  about  the  French  invasion  ; 

I  must  confess  I  acted  like 
A  donkey  upon  that  occasion. 

Here's  news  from  Paternoster  Row ; 

How  mad  I  was  when  first  I  learnt  it ! 
They  would  not  take  my  Book,  and  now 

I'd  give  a  trifle  to  have  burnt  it. 

A  ghastly  bill !     "I  disapprove : " 
And  yet  She  help'd  me  to  defray  it : 

What  tokens  of  a  mother's  love  ! 
O  bitter  thought !  I  can't  repay  it. 

And  here's  a  score  of  notes  at  last, 

With  "  love  "  and  "  dove,"  and  "  sever  " 
"  never,"— 

Though  hope,  though  passion  may  be  past, 
Their  perfume  is  as  sweet  as  ever. 

A  human  heart  should  beat  for  two, 
Despite  the  taunt  of  single  scorners ; 

And  all  the  hearths  I  ever  knew 
Had  got  a  pair  of  chimney-corners. 

See  here  a  double  violet — 

Two  locks  of  hair — a  deal  of  scandal ; 
I'll  burn  what  only  leaves  regret — 

Go,  Betty,  bring  a  lighted  candle. 

1856. 


SUSAN. 
i. 

THE  ALDER-TREES. 

AT  Susan's  name  the  fancy  plays 
With  chiming  thoughts  of  early  days, 
And  hearts  unwrung ; 
When  all  too  fair  our  future  smiled, 
When  she  was  Mirth's  adopted  child, 
And  I  was  young. 

I  see  the  cot  with  spreading  eaves, 

Bright  shines  the  sun  through  summer  leaves, 

But  does  not  scorch, 
The  dial  stone,  the  pansy  bed ; — 
Old  Robin  trained  the  roses  red 

About  the  porch. 

'Twixt  alders  twain  a  rustic  seat 
Was  merriest  Susan's  pet  retreat 
To  merry  make ; 


SUSAN.  47 


Good  Robin's  handiwork  again, — 
O  must  we  say  his  toil  was  vain, 
For  Susan's  sake  ? 

Her  gleeful  tones  and  laughter  gay 
Were  sunshine  on  the  darkest  day ; 

And  yet  some  said 

That  when  her  mirth  was  passing  wild, 
Though  still  the  faithful  Robin  smiled, 

He  shook  his  head. 

Perhaps  the  old  man  harbour'd  fears 
That  happiness  is  wed  with  tears 

On  this  poor  earth  ; 
Or  else,  maybe,  his  fancies  were 
That  youth  and  beauty  are  a  snare 

If  link'd  with  mirth. 


And  times  are  changed,  how  changed  that  scene  ! 
For  mark  old  Robin's  mournful  mien, 

And  feeble  tread. 

His  toil  has  ceased  to  be  his  pride, 
At  Susan's  name  he  turns  aside, 

And  shakes  his  head. 

And  summer  smiles,  but  summer  spells 
Can  never  charm  where  sorrow  dwells ; — 
No  maiden  fair, 


48  SUSAN. 

Or  sad,  or  gay,  the  passer  sees, — 
And  still  the  much-loved  Alder-trees 
Throw  shadows  there. 

The  homely-fashion'd  seat  is  gone, 
And  where  it  stood  is  laid  a  stone, 

A  simple  square  : 
The  worldling,  or  the  man  severe, 
May  pass  the  name  recorded  here  \ 
But  we  will  stay  to  shed  a  tear, 

And  breathe  a  prayer. 

1855- 


ii. 

A  KIND  PROVIDENCE. 

He  dropt  a  tear  on  Susan's  bier, 

He  seem'd  a  most  despairing  swain ; 

But  bluer  sky  brought  newer  tie, 

And — would  he  wish  her  back  again? 

The  moments  fly,  and  when  we  die, 
Will  Philly  Thistletop  complain  ? 

She'll  cry  and  sigh,  and — dry  her  eye, 
And  let  herself  be  woo'd  again. 


1861. 


MY  FIRST-BORN. 

"  T  T  E  shan't  be  their  namesake,  the  rather 
L  A      That  both  are  such  opulent  men 

His  name  shall  be  that  of  his  father, 
My  Benjamin,  shorten'd  to  Ben. 

"  Yes,  Ben,  though  it  cost  him  a  portion 

In  each  of  my  relatives'  wills — 
I  scorn  such  baptismal  extortion  ! 

(That  creaking  of  boots  must  be  Squills). 

"  It  is  clear,  though  his  means  may  be  narrow 

This  infant  his  age  will  adorn ; 
I  shall  send  him  to  Oxford  from  Harrow, — 

I  wonder  how  soon  he'll  be  born  ! " 

A  spouse  thus  was  airing  his  fancies 

Below — 'twas  a  labour  of  love — 
And  was  calmly  reflecting  on  Nancy's 

More  practical  labour  above ; 


50  MY    FIRST-BORN. 

Yet  while  it  so  pleased  him  to  ponder, 

Elated,  at  ease,  and  alone ; 
The  pale,  patient  victim  up  yonder 

Had  budding  delights  of  her  own ; 

Sweet  thoughts,  in  their  essence  diviner 
Than  paltry  ambition  and  pelf ; 

A  cherub,  no  babe  will  be  finer, 
Invented  and  nursed  by  herself. 

One  breakfasting,  dining,  and  teaing, 
With  appetite  nought  can  appease  ; 

And  quite  a  Young  Reasoning  Being 
When  call'd  on  to  yawn  and  to  sneeze. 

What  cares  that  heart,  trusting  and  tender, 

For  fame  or  avuncular  wills  ? 
Except  for  the  name  and  the  gender, 

She's  almost  as  tranquil  as  Squills. 

That  father,  in  reverie  centred, 

Dumfounder'd,  his  thoughts  in  a  whirl, 

Heard  Squills,  as  the  creaking  boots  enter'd, 
Announce  that  his  Boy  was — a  Girl. 


THE  WIDOW'S  MITE. 

A  WIDOW  !  she  had  only  one, 
A  puny  and  decrepit  son  ; 
Yet,  day  and  night, 

Though  often  fretful, — weak  and  small, 
A  loving  child,  he  was  her  all — 
The  Widow's  Mite. 

The  Widow's  Mite,  ay,  so  sustained, 
She  battled  onward,  nor  complained 

When  friends  were  fewer  : 
And  while  she  toil'd  for  daily  fare, 
A  little  crutch  upon  the  stair 

Was  music  to  her. 

I  saw  her  then, — and  now  I  see, 
That  though  resign'd  and  cheerful,  she 

Has  sorrow'd  much : 
She  has — HE  gave  it  tenderly — 
Much  faith — and,  carefully  laid  by, 

A  little  crutch. 


1856. 


ST.  GEORGE'S,  HANOVER  SQUARE. 

"  Dans  le  bonheur  de  nos  meilleurs  amis  nous  trouvons  souvent  quelque 
chose  qui  ne  nous  plait  pas  entierement." 

SHE  pass'd  up  the  aisle  on  the  arm  of  her  sire, 
A  delicate  lady  in  bridal  attire, 
Fair  emblem  of  virgin  simplicity ; 
Half  London  was  there,  and,  my  word,  there  were  few 
That  stood  by  the  altar,  or  hid  in  a  pew, 
But  envied  Lord  Nigel's  felicity. 

O  beautiful  Bride!    So  meek  in  thy  splendour, 
So  frank  in  thy  love,  and  its  trusting  surrender, 

Departing  you  leave  us  the  town  dim  ! 
May  happiness  wing  to  thy  bosom,  unsought, 
And  may  Nigel,  esteeming  his  bliss  as  he  ought, 

Prove  worthy  thy  worship, — confound  him  ! 


V&  VICTIS. 

"  A  /T  Y  Kate>  at  the  Waterlo°  Column, 
1 VJL      To-morrow,  precisely  at  eight ; 

Remember,  thy  promise  was  solemn, 
And — thine  till  to-morrow,  my  Kate  ! " 

***** 

That  evening  seem'd  strangely  to  linger, — 
The  license  and  luggage  were  pack'd ; 

And  Time,  with  a  long  and  short  finger, 
Approvingly  mark'd  me  exact. 

Arrived,  woman's  constancy  blessing, 

No  end  of  nice  people  I  see ; 
Some  hither,  some  thitherwards  pressing, — 

But  none  of  them  waiting  for  me. 

Time  passes,  my  watch  how  I  con  it ; 

I  see  her,  she's  coming — no,  stuff ! 
Is  it  Kate  and  her  smart  little  bonnet  ? 

— It's  aunt,  and  her  wonderful  muff! 


54  V^E  VICTIS. 

(Yes,  Fortune  deserves  to  be  chidden ; 

It  is  a  coincidence  queer 
That  whenever  one  wants  to  be  hidden 

One's  relatives  always  appear.) 

Near  nine !  how  the  passers  despise  me, 
They  smile  at  my  anguish,  I  think ; 

And  even  the  sentinel  eyes  me, 
And  tips  that  policeman  the  wink. 

Ah  !  Kate  made  me  promises  solemn, 
At  eight  she  had  vow'd  to  be  mine ; — 

While  waiting  for  one  at  this  column, 
I  find  I've  been  waiting  for  nine. 

O  Fame  !  on  thy  pillar  so  steady, 

Some  dupes  watch  beneath  thee  in  vain  : 

How  many  have  done  it  already ! 
How  many  will  do  it  again  ! 


PUBLISHED  IN  1862 


A  HUMAN  SKULL. 

A  HUMAN  Skull !  I  bought  it  passing  cheap,— 
Indeed  'twas  dearer  to  its  first  employer ; — 
I  thought  mortality  did  well  to  keep 

Some  mute  memento  of  the  Old  Destroyer. 

Time  was,  some  may  have  prized  its  blooming  skin ; 

Here  lips  were  woo'd,  perhaps,  in  transport  tender ; 
Some  may  have  chuck'd  what  was  a  dimpled  chin, 

And  never  had  my  doubt  about  its  gender ! 

Did  she  live  yesterday  or  ages  back  ? 

What  colour  were  the  eyes  when  bright  and  waking? 
And  were  your  ringlets  fair,  or  brown,  or  black, 

Poor  little  head  !  that  long  has  done  with  aching  ? 

It  may  have  held  (to  shoot  some  random  shots) 
Thy  brains,  Eliza  Fry  ! — or  Baron  Byron's ; 

The  wits  of  Nelly  Gwynn,  or  Doctor  Watts, — 
Two  quoted  bards  !  two  philanthropic  sirens  ! 


58  A  HUMAN  SKULL. 

But  this  I  trust  is  clearly  understood, 

If  man  or  woman, — if  adored  or  hated, — 

Whoever  own'd  the  Skull  was  not  so  good, 
Nor  quite  so  bad  as  many  may  have  stated. 

Who  love,  can  need  no  special  type  of  Death ; 

He  bares  his  awful  face  too  soon,  too  often ; 
"  Immortelles  "  bloom  in  Beauty's  bridal  wreath, 

And  does  not  yon  green  elm  contain  a  coffin  ? 

O,  true-love  mine,  what  lines  of  care  are  these  ? 

The  heart  still  lingers  with  its  golden  hours, 
But  fading  tints  are  on  the  chestnut-trees, 

And  where  is  all  that  lavish  wealth  of  flowers  ? 

The  end  is  near.     Life  lacks  what  once  it  gave, 
Yet  death  has  promises  that  call  for  praises ; — 

A  very  worthless  rogue  may  dig  the  grave, 

But  hands  unseen  will  dress  the  turf  with  daisies. 


TO  MY  OLD  FRIEND  POSTUMUS. 
(j.  G.) 

MY  Friend,  our  few  remaining  years 
Are  hasting  to  an  end, 
They  glide  away,  and  lines  are  here 

That  time  can  never  mend  ; 
Thy  blameless  life  avails  thee  not, — 
Alas,  my  dear  old  Friend  ! 

Death  lifts  a  burthen  from  the  poor, 

And  brings  the  weary  rest, 
But  aye  from  Earth's  green  orchard  trees 

The  canker  takes  our  best, 
The  Well-beloved  !  she  bloonYd,  and  now 

The  turf  is  on  her  breast ! 

And  vainly  are  we  fenced  about 

From  peril,  day  and  night, 
Those  awful  rapids  must  be  shot, 

Our  shallop  will  be  slight ; 
So  pray  that  then  we  may  descry 

Some  cheering  beacon-light. 


60         TO  MY  OLD  FRIEND  POSTUMUS. 

O  pleasant  earth  !     This  peaceful  home  ! 

The  darling  at  my  knee  ! 
My  own  dear  wife !  Thyself,  old  Friend  ' 

And  must  it  come  to  me 
That  any  face  shall  fill  my  place 

Unknown  to  them  and  thee  ? 


THE  VICTORIA  CROSS. 

A   LEGEND   OF   TUNBRIDGE   WELLS. 

SHE  gave  him  a  draught  freshly  drawn  from  the 
springlet, — 

O  Tunbridge,  thy  waters  are  bitter,  alas  ! 
But  love  finds  an  ambush  in  dimple  and  ringlet ; 
"Thy  health,  pretty  maiden!"— He  emptied  the 
glass. 

He  saw,  and  he  loved  her,  nor  cared  he  to  quit  her ; 

The  oftener  he  came,  why  the  longer  he  stay'd  ; 
Indeed,  though  the  spring  was  exceedingly  bitter, 

We  found  him  eternally  pledging  the  maid. 

A  preux  chevalier,  and  but  lately  a  cripple, 
He  met  with  his  hurt  where  a  regiment  fell, 

But  worse  was  he  wounded  when  staying  to  tipple 
A  bumper  to  "  Phoebe,  the  Nymph  of  the  Well." 


62  THE  VICTORIA  CROSS. 

Some  swore  he  was  old,  that  his  laurels  were  faded, 
All  vow'd  she  was  vastly  too  nice  for  a  nurse ; 

But  Love  never  look'd  on  the  matter  as  they  did, — 
She  took  the  brave  soldier  for  better  or  worse. 

And  here  is  the  home  of  her  fondest  election, 
The  walls  may  be  worn,  but  the  ivy  is  green ; 

And  here  she  has  tenderly  twined  her  affection 
Around  a  true  soldier  who  bled  for  the  Queen. 

See,  yonder  he  sits,  where  the  church  flings  its  shadows; 

What  child  is  that  spelling  the  epitaphs  there  ? 
To  that  imp  its  devout  and  devoted  old  dad  owes 

New  zest  in  thanksgiving,  fresh  fervour  in  prayer ! 

Ere  long,  ay,  too  soon,  a  sad  concourse  will  darken 
The  doors  of  that  church,  and  that  peaceful  abode ; 

His  place  then  no  longer  will  know  him — but,  hearken, 
The  widow  and  orphan  appeal  to  their  God. 

Much  peace  will  be  hers.     "  If  our  lot  must  be  lowly, 
Resemble  thy  father,  though  with  us  no  more ; " 

And  only  on  days  that  are  high  or  are  holy, 
She'll  show  him  the  cross  that  her  warrior  wore. 

So  taught,  he  will  rather  take  after  his  father, 
And  wear  a  long  sword  to  our  enemies'  loss, 

Till  some  day  or  other  he'll  bring  to  his  mother 
Victoria's  gift — the  Victoria  Cross  ! 


THE  VICTORIA  CROSS.  63 

And  still  she'll  be  charming,  though  ringlet  and  dimple 
Perchance  may  have  lost  their  peculiar  spell ; 

And  often  she'll  quote,  with  complacency  simple, 
The  compliments  paid  to  the  Nymph  of  the  Well. 

And  then  will  her  darling,  like  all  good  and  true  ones, 
Console  and  sustain  her,  the  weak  and  the  strong ; 

And  some  day  or  other  two  black  eyes  or  blue  ones 
Will  smile  on  his  path  as  he  journeys  along. 

Wherever  they  win  him,  whoever  his  Phoebe, 
Of  course  of  all  beauty  she  must  be  the  belle, — 

If  at  Tunbridge  he  chance  to  fall  in  with  a  Hebe, 
He  will  not  fall  out  with  a  draught  from  the  Well. 


"  I  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN  MORE  KIND." 

HER  quiet  resting-place  is  far  away, 
None  dwelling  there  have  wept  for  her  sad 

story: 

The  stones  are  mute.     The  stones  could  only  say, 
"  A  humble  spirit  pass'd  away  to  glory." 

She  loved  the  murmur  of  this  mighty  town, 
The  lark  rejoiced  her  from  its  lattice  prison  \ 

A  streamlet  soothes  her  now, — the  bird  has  flown, — 
Some  dust  is  waiting  there — a  soul  has  risen. 

No  city  smoke  to  stain  the  heather  bells, — 
Sigh,  gentle  winds,  around  my  lone  love  sleeping, — 

She  bore  her  burthen  here,  but  now  she  dwells 
Where  scorner  never  came,  and  none  are  weeping. 

My  name  was  falter' d  with  her  parting  breath — 
These  arms  were  round  my  darling  at  the  latest : 

All  scenes  of  death  are  woe — but  painful  death 
In  those  we  dearly  love  is  surely  greatest ! 


"l   MIGHT   HAVE   BEEN   MORE    KIND."  65 

I  could  not  die  :  HE  will'd  it  otherwise ; 

My  lot  is  here,  and  sorrow,  wearing  older, 
Weighs  down  the  heart,  yet  does  not  fill  the  eyes, 

And  even  friends  may  think  that  I  am  colder. 

I  might  have  been  more  kind,  more  tender ;  now 
Repining  wrings  my  bosom.     I  am  grateful 

No  eye  can  see  this  mark  upon  my  brow  ; — 
All,  all  my  old  companionship  is  hateful. 

But  when  at  times  I  steal  away  from  these, 
To  find  her  grave,  and  pray  to  be  forgiven, 

And  when  I  watch  beside  her  on  my  knees, 
I  think  I  am  a  little  nearer  heaven. 

1861. 


THE  ANGORA  CAT. 

GOOD  pastry  is  vended 
In  Cite  Fadette ; 

Madame  Pons  can  make  splendid 
Brioche  and  galette  ! 

Monsieur  Pons  is  so  fat  that 

He's  laid  on  the  shelf; 
Madame  Pons  had  a  cat  that 

Was  fat  as  herself. 

Long  hair,  soft  as  satin, 

A  musical  purr — 
'Gainst  the  window  she'd  flatten 

Her  delicate  fur. 

Once  I  drove  Lou  to  see  what 

Our  neighbours  were  at, 
When,  in  rapture,  cried  she,  "  What 

An  exquisite  cat ! 


THE  ANGORA  CAT.  67 

"  What  whiskers  !    She's  purring 

All  over.     Regale 
Our  eyes,  Puss,  by  stirring 

Your  feathery  tail ! 

"  Monsieur  Pons,  will  you  sell  her?" 

"  Mafemme  est  sortie, 
Your  offer  Pll  tell  her, 

But — will  she?"  says  he. 

Yet  Pons  was  persuaded 

To  part  with  the  prize : 
(Our  bargain  was  aided, 

My  Lou,  by  your  eyes  !) 

From  his  legitime  save  him, — 

My  fate  I  prefer ! 
For  I  warrant  she  gave  him 

Un  mauvais  quart  d'Jieure. 

I'm  giving  a  pleasant 

Grimalkin  to  Lou, — 
Ah,  Puss,  what  a  present 

I'm  giving  to  you  ! 


REPLY  TO  A  LETTER  ENCLOSING 
A  LOCK  OF  HAIR. 

"  '  My  darling  wants  to  see  you  soon,' — 

I  bless  the  little  maid,  and  thank  her ; 
To  do  her  bidding,  night  and  noon 
I  draw  on  Hope — Love's  kindest  banker !  " 

Old  MSS. 

YES,  you  were  false,  and  though  I'm  free, 
I  still  would  be  the  slave  of  yore ; 
Then  join'd  our  years  were  thirty- three, 
And  now, — yes,  now,  I'm  thirty-four. 
And  though  you  were  not  learned — well, 

I  was  not  anxious  you  should  grow  so  ; — 
I  trembled  once  beneath  her  spell 
Whose  spelling  was  extremely  so-so  ! 

Bright  season  !  why  will  Memory 

Still  haunt  the  path  our  rambles  took, 
The  sparrow's  nest  that  made  you  cry, 

The  lilies  captured  in  the  brook  ? 
I'd  lifted  you  from  side  to  side, 

You  seem'd  as  light  as  that  poor  sparrow ; 
I  know  who  wish'd  it  twice  as  wide, 

I  think  you  thought  it  rather  narrow. 


REPLY  TO  A  LETTER.  69 

Time  was,  indeed,  a  little  while  ! 

My  pony  could  your  heart  compel ; 
And  once,  beside  the  meadow-stile, 

I  thought  you  loved  me  just  as  well ; 
I'd  kiss'd  your  cheek ;  in  sweet  surprise 

Your  troubled  gaze  said  plainly,  "  Should  he  ?" 
But  doubt  soon  fled  those  daisy  eyes, — 

"  He  could  not  wish  to  vex  me,  could  he  ?" 


The  brightest  eyes  are  often  sad, 

But  your  fair  cheek,  so  lightly  swa/d, 
Could  ripple  into  dimples  glad, 

For  O,  my  stars,  what  mirth  we  made  ! 
The  brightest  tears  are  soonest  dried, 

But  your  young  love  and  dole  were  stable ; 
You  wept  when  dear  old  Rover  died, 

You  wept — and  dress'd  your  dolls  in  sable. 


As  year  succeeds  to  year,  the  more 

Imperfect  life's  fruition  seems, 
Our  dreams,  as  baseless  as  of  yore, 

Are  not  the  same  enchanting  dreams. 
The  girls  I  love  now  vote  me  slow — 

How  dull  the  boys  who  once  seem'd  witty ! 
Perhaps  I'm  getting  old — I  know 

I'm  still  romantic — more's  the  pity ! 


70  REPLY  TO  A  LETTER. 

Ah,  vain  regret !  to  few,  perchance, 

Unknown,  and  profitless  to  all  : 
The  wisely-gay,  as  years  advance, 

Are  gaily-wise.     Whatever  befall, 
We'll  laugh  at  folly,  whether  seen 

Beneath  a  chimney  or  a  steeple  ; 
At  yours,  at  mine — our  own,  I  mean, 

As  well  as  that  of  other  people. 


They  cannot  be  complete  in  aught 

Who  are  not  humorously  prone, — 
A  man  without  a  merry  thought 

Can  hardly  have  a  funny  bone. 
To  say  I  hate  your  dismal  men 

Might  be  esteem'd  a  strong  assertion  ; 
If  I've  blue  devils  now  and  then, 

I  make  them  dance  for  my  diversion. 


And  here's  your  letter  debonair  ! 

"  My  friend \  my  dear  old  friend  of  yore" 
And  is  this  curl  your  daughter's  hair  ? 

I've  seen  the  Titian  tint  before. 
Are  we  the  pair  that  used  to  pass 

Long  days  beneath  the  chestnut  shady  ? 
You  then  were  such  a  pretty  lass  ! 

I'm  told  you're  now  as  fair  a  lady. 


REPLY  TO  A  LETTER.  7  I 

I've  laugh'd  to  hide  the  tear  I  shed, 

As  when  the  Jester's  bosom  swells, 
And  mournfully  he  shakes  his  head, 

We  hear  the  jingle  of  his  bells. 
A  jesting  vein  your  poet  vex'd, 

And  this  poor  rhyme,  the  Fates  determine, 
Without  a  parson  or  a  text, 

Has  proved  a  rather  prosy  sermon. 


1859. 


THE  BEAR  PIT 

AT  THE  ZOOLOGICAL  GARDENS. 

WE  liked  the  bear's  serio-comical  face, 
As  he  loll'd  with  a  lazy,  a  lumbering  grace ; 
Said  Slyboots  to  me  (just  as  if  she  had  none), 
"  Papa,  let's  give  Bruin  a  bit  of  your  bun." 

Says  I,  "  A  plum  bun  might  please  wistful  old  Bruin, 
He  can't  eat  the  stone  that  the  cruel  boy  threw  in ; 
Stick  yours  on  the  point  of  mamma's  parasol, 
And  perhaps  he  will  climb  to  the  top  of  the  pole. 

"  Some  bears  have  got  two  legs,  and  some  have  got 

more, 

Be  good  to  old  bears  if  they've  no  legs  or  four ; 
Of  duty  to  age  you  should  never  be  careless, 
My  dear,  I  am  bald,  and  I  soon  may  be  hairless  ! 

"  The  gravest  aversion  exists  among  bears 

For  rude  forward  persons  who  give  themselves  airs, 

We  know  how  some  graceless  young  people   they 

maul'd 
Just  for  plaguing  a  prophet,  and  calling  him  bald. 


THE  BEAR  PIT.  73 

"  Strange  ursine  devotion  !  Their  dancing-days  ended, 
Bears  die  to  'remove '  what,  in  life,  they  defended  : 
They  succour'd  the  Prophet,  and  since  that  affair 
The  bald  have  a  painful  regard  for  the  bear." 

My  Moral — Small  People  may  read  it,  and  run 
(The  child  has  my  moral,  the  bear  has  my  bun), 
Does  it  argue  that  Bruin  has  never  had  peace 
'Twixt  bald  men  in  Bethel,  and  wise  men  in  grease? 


MY  NEIGHBOUR  ROSE. 

THOUGH  slender  walls  our  hearths  divide, 
No  word  has  pass'd  from  either  side, 
How  gaily  all  your  days  must  glide 

Unvex'd  by  labour ! 

I've  seen  you  weep,  and  could  have  wept ; 
I've  heard  you  sing,  and  may  have  slept ; 
Sometimes  I  hear  your  chimney  swept, 
My  charming  neighbour ! 

Your  pets  are  mine.     Pray  what  may  ail 
The  pup,  once  eloquent  of  tail  ? 
I  wonder  why  your  nightingale 

Is  mute  at  sunset  ? 

Your  puss,  demure  and  pensive,  seems 
Too  fat  to  mouse.  She  much  esteems 
Yon  sunny  wall,  and  sleeps  and  dreams 

Of  mice  she  once  ate. 


MY  NEIGHBOUR  ROSE.  75 

Our  tastes  agree.     I  dote  upon 

Frail  jars,  turquoise  and  celadon, 

The  "  Wedding  March  "  of  Mendelssohn, 

And  Penseroso. 

When  sorely  tempted  to  purloin 
\Q\\rpietd  of  Marc  Antoine, 
Fair  Virtue  doth  fair  play  enjoin, 

Fair  Virtuoso  ! 


At  times  an  Ariel,  cruel-kind, 

Will  kiss  my  lips,  and  stir  your  blind, 

And  whisper  low,  "  She  hides  behind  ; 

Thou  art  not  lonely." 
The  tricksy  sprite  did  erst  assist 
At  hush'd  Verona's  moonlight  tryst ; — 
Sweet  Capulet !  thou  wert  not  kiss'd 

By  light  winds  only. 


I  miss  the  simple  days  of  yore, 

When  two  long  braids  of  hair  you  wore, 

And  chat  botte  was  wonder'd  o'er, 

In  corner  cosy. 

But  gaze  not  back  for  tales  like  those  : 
It's  all  in  order,  I  suppose, 
The  Bud  is  now  a  blooming  ROSE, — 

A  rosy  posy  ! 


76  MY  NEIGHBOUR  ROSE. 

Indeed,  farewell  to  bygone  years ; 
How  wonderful  the  change  appears, 
For  curates  now  and  cavaliers 

In  turn  perplex  you  : 
The  last  are  birds  of  feather  gay, 
Who  swear  the  first  are  birds  of  prey ; 
I'd  scare  them  all  had  I  my  way, 

But  that  might  vex  you. 


At  times  I've  envied,  it  is  true, 
That  hero  blithe,  of  twenty-two, 
Who  sent  bouquets  and  billets  doux, 

And  wore  a  sabre. 

The  rogue  !  how  close  his  arm  he  wound 
About  her  waist,  who  never  frown'd. 
He  loves  you,  Child.     Now,  is  he  bound 

To  love  my  neighbour  ? 


The  bells  are  ringing.     As  is  meet, 
White  favours  fascinate  the  street, 
Sweet  faces  greet  me,  rueful-sweet 

'Twixt  tears  and  laughter  : 
They  crowd  the  door  to  see  her  go, 
The  bliss  of  one  brings  many  woe ; 
O  kiss  the  bride,  and  I  will  throw 

The  old  shoe  after. 


MY  NEIGHBOUR  ROSE.  77 

What  change  in  one  short  afternoon, — 
My  Charming  Neighbour  gone, — so  soon  ! 
Is  yon  pale  orb  her  honey-moon 

Slow  rising  hither  ? 
O  lady,  wan  and  marvellous, 
How  often  have  we  communed  thus  ; 
Sweet  memory  shall  dwell  with  us, — 

And  joy  go  with  her  ! 


1861. 


THE  OLD  OAK-TREE  AT  HATFIELD 
BROADOAK. 

A     MIGHTY  growth  !     The  county  side 
-L\.     Lamented  when  the  Giant  died, 

For  England  loves  her  trees  : 
What  misty  legends  round  him  cling ! 
How  lavishly  he  once  would  fling 

His  acorns  to  the  breeze ! 

Who  struck  a  thousand  roots  in  fame, 
Who  gave  the  district  half  its  name, 

Will  not  be  soon  forgotten  : 
Last  spring  he  show'd  but  one  green  bough, 
The  red  leaves  hang  there  still,  and  now 

His  very  props  are  rotten  ! 

Elate,  the  thunderbolt  he  braved, 
For  centuries  his  branches  waved 

A  welcome  to  the  blast ; 
From  reign  to  reign  he  bore  a  spell — 
No  forester  had  dared  to  fell 

What  Time  has  felFd  at  last. 


THE  OLD  OAK-TREE.  79 

The  monarch  wore  a  leafy  crown, 

And  wolves,  ere  wolves  were  hunted  down, 

Sought  safety  in  his  gloom; 
Unnumber'd  squirrels  frolick'd  free, 
Glad  music  fill'd  the  gallant  tree 

From  stem  to  topmost  bloom. 

'Twere  hard  to  say,  'twere  vain  to  seek 
When  first  he  ventured  forth,  a  meek 

Petitioner  for  dew ; 
No  Saxon  spade  disturbed  his  root, 
The  rabbit  spared  the  tender  shoot, 

And  valiantly  he  grew, 

And  show'd  some  inches  from  the  ground 
When  St.  Augustine  came  and  found 

Us  very  proper  Vandals : 
When  nymphs  had  bluer  eyes  than  hose, 
When  England  measured  men  by  blows, 

And  measured  time  by  candles. 


The  pilgrim  bless' d  his  grateful  shade 
Ere  Richard  led  the  first  crusade, 

And  maidens  led  the  dance 
Where,  boy  and  man,  in  summer-time, 
Our  Chaucer  ponder'd  o'er  his  rhyme  ; 

And  Robin  Hood  perchance, 


8o  THE  OLD  OAK-TREE  AT 

Stole  hither  to  maid  Marian 

(And  if  they  did  not  come,  one  can 

At  any  rate  suppose  it) ; 
They  met  beneath  the  mistletoe, — 
We  did  the  same,  and  ought  to  know 

The  reason  why  they  chose  it. 

And  this  was  call'd  the  traitor's  branch, 
Stern  Warwick  hung  six  yeomen  stanch 

Along  its  mighty  fork ; 
Uncivil  wars  for  them  !     The  fair 
Red  rose  and  white  still  bloom, — but  where 

Are  Lancaster  and  York  ? 


Right  mournfully  his  leaves  he  shed 
To  shroud  the  graves  of  England's  dead, 

By  English  falchion  slain ; 
And  cheerfully,  for  England's  sake, 
He  sent  his  kin  to  sea  with  Drake, 

When  Tudor  humbled  Spain. 

While  Blake  was  fighting  with  the  Dutch 
They  gave  his  poor  old  arms  a  crutch  ; 

And  thrice  four  maids  and  men  ate 
A  meal  within  his  rugged  bark, 
When  Coventry  bewitch'd  the  Park, 

And  Chatham  sway'd  the  senate. 


HATFIELD    BROADOAK.  8 1 

His  few  remaining  boughs  were  green, 
And 'dappled  sunbeams  danced  between, 

Upon  the  dappled  deer, 
When,  clad  in  black,  two  mourners  met 
To  read  the  Waterloo  Gazette, — 

They  mourn'd  their  darling  here. 

They  join'd  their  boy.     The  tree  at  last 
Lies  prone,  discoursing  of  the  past, 

Some  fancy-dreams  awaking ; 
Resigned,  though  headlong  changes  come, 
Though  nations  arm  to  tuck  of  drum, 

And  dynasties  are  quaking. 

Romantic  spot !     By  honest  pride 
Of  old  tradition  sanctified ; 

My  pensive  vigil  keeping, 
I  feel  thy  beauty  like  a  spell, 
And  thoughts,  and  tender  thoughts,  upwell, 

That  fill  my  heart  to  weeping. 


The  Squire  affirms,  with  gravest  look, 
His  oak  goes  up  to  Domesday  Book  ! 

And  some  say  even  higher  ! 
We  rode  last  week  to  see  the  ruin, 
We  love  the  fair  domain  it  grew  in, 

And  well  we  love  the  Squire. 
G 


82  THE   OLD    OAK-TREE. 

A  nature  loyally  controll'd, 

And  fashion' d  in  the  righteous  mould    • 

Of  English  gentleman ; 
Some  day  my  child  will  read  these  rhymes, 
She  loved  her  "  godpapa  "  betimes, — 

The  little  Christian ! 

I  love  the  Past,  its  ripe  pleasance, 
Its  lusty  thought,  and  dim  romance, 

And  heart-compelling  ditties ; 
But  more,  these  ties,  in  mercy  sent, 
With  faith  and  true  affection  blent, 
And,  wanting  them,  I  were  content 

To  murmur,  "  Nunc  dimittis" 

HALLINGBURY,  April,  1859. 


TO  MY  GRANDMOTHER. 

(SUGGESTED  BY  A  PICTURE  BY  MR.  ROMNEY.) 

THIS  relative  of  mine 
Was  she  seventy  and  nine 
When  she  died? 
By  the  canvas  may  be  seen, 
How  she  look'd  at  seventeen, 
As  a  bride. 

Beneath  a  summer  tree 
Her  maiden  reverie 

Has  a  charm ; 
Her  ringlets  are  in  taste ; 
What  an  arm  !  and  what  a  waist 

For  an  arm ! 

With  her  bridal-wreath,  bouquet, 
Lace,  farthingale,  and  gay 

Falbala, 

— Were  Romney's  limning  true, 
What  a  lucky  dog  were  you, 

Grandpapa ! 


84  TO   MY   GRANDMOTHER. 

Her  lips  are  sweet  as  love ; 

They  are  parting  !     Do  they  move  ? 

Are  they  dumb  ? 
Her  eyes  are  blue,  and  beam 
Beseechingly,  and  seem 

To  say,  "  Come." 


What  funny  fancy  slips 

From  between  these  cherry  lips? 

Whisper  me, 
Sweet  deity  in  paint, 
What  canon  says  I  mayn't 

Marry  thee  ? 

That  good-for-nothing  Time 
Has  a  confidence  sublime  ! 

When  I  first 

Saw  this  lady,  in  my  youth, 
Her  winters  had,  forsooth, 

Done  their  worst. 

Her  locks,  as  white  as  snow, 
Once  shamed  the  swarthy  crow ; 

By-and-by, 

That  fowl's  avenging  sprite 
Set  his  cruel  foot  for  spite 

Near  her  eye. 


TO   MY   GRANDMOTHER.  85 

Her  rounded  form  was  lean, 
And  her  silk  was  bombazine  : — 

Well  I  wot, 

With  her  needles  would  she  sit, 
And  for  hours  would  she  knit, — 

Would  she  not  ? 

Ah,  perishable  clay ! 

Her  charms  had  dropt  away 

One  by  one  : 
But  if  she  heaved  a  sigh 
With  a  burthen,  it  was,  "  Thy 

Will  be  done." 

In  travail,  as  in  tears, 
With  the  fardel  of  her  years 

Overprest, — 
In  mercy  she  was  borne 
Where  the  weary  and  the  worn 

Are  at  rest. 

I  fain  would  meet  you  there ; — 
If  witching  as  you  were, 

Grandmamma, 
This  nether  world  agrees 
That  the  better  you  must  please 
Grandpapa. 


THE  SKELETON  IN  THE  CUPBOARD. 

THE  characters  of  great  and  small 
Come  ready  made  (we  can't  bespeak  one) ; 
Their  sides  are  many,  too, — and  all 

(Except  ourselves)  have  got  a  weak  one. 
Some  sanguine  people  love  for  life, 

Some  love  their  hobby  till  it  flings  them, — 
How  many  love  a  pretty  wife 

For  love  of  the  eclat  she  brings  them  ! 

In  order  to  relieve  my  mind 

I've  thrown  off  this  disjointed  chatter, 
And  much  because  I'm  disinclined 

To  venture  on  a  painful  matter : 
I  once  was  bashful ;  I'll  allow 

I've  blush'd  for  words  untimely  spoken, 
I  still  am  rather  shy,  and  now  .  .  . 

And  now  the  ice  is  fairly  broken. 


THE    SKELETON    IN    THE   CUPBOARD.  87 

We  all  have  secrets  :  you  have  one 

Which  mayn't  be  quite  your  charming  spouse's ; 
We  all  lock  up  a  skeleton 

In  some  grim  chamber  of  our  houses  ; 
Familiars  who  exhaust  their  days 

And  nights  in  plaguing  fops  and  fogies, 
And  who,  excepting  spiteful  ways, 

Are  blameless,  unassuming  bogies. 


We  hug  the  phantom  we  detest, 

We  rarely  let  it  cross  our  portals  : 
It  is  a  most  exacting  guest, — 

Now  are  we  not  afflicted  mortals  ? 
Your  neighbour  Gay,  that  jovial  wight, 

As  Dives  rich,  and  bold  as  Hector, 
Poor  Gay  steals  twenty  times  a  night, 

On  shaking  knees,  to  see  his  spectre. 


Old  Dives  fears  a  pauper  fate, 

And  hoarding  is  his  gloomy  passion ; 
And  some  poor  souls  anticipate 

A  waistcoat  straiter  than  the  fashion. 
She,  childless,  pines, — that  lonely  wife, 

And  hidden  tears  are  bitter  shedding ; 
And  he  may  tremble  all  his  life, 

And  die, — but  not  of  that  he's  dreading. 


88       THE  SKELETON  IN  THE  CUPBOARD. 

Ah  me,  the  World  !     How  fast  it  spins  ! 

The  beldams  dance,  the  caldron  bubbles ; 
They  shriek,  and  stir  it  for  our  sins, 

And  we  must  drain  it  for  our  troubles. 
We  toil,  we  groan — the  cry  for  love 

Mounts  upward  from  the  seething  city, 
And  yet  I  know  we  have  above 

A  FATHER,  infinite  in  pity. 

When  Beauty  smiles,  when  Sorrow  weeps, 

When  sunbeams  play,  when  shadows  darken, 
One  inmate  of  our  dwelling  keeps 

A  ghastly  carnival — but  hearken  ! 
How  dry  the  rattle  of  the  bones  ! — 

The  sound  was  not  to  make  you  start  meant. 
Stand  by !     Your  humble  servant  owns 

The  Tenant  of  this  Dark  Apartment. 


GLYCERE. 


OLD  MAN. 


I 


N  gala  dress,  and  smiling  !     Sweet, 
What  seek  you  in  my  green  retreat  ? 


YOUNG  GIRL. 

I  gather  flowers  for  my  hair, 

The  village  yonder  claims  the  best, 
For  lad  and  lass  are  thronging  there 

To  dance  the  sober  sun  to  rest. 
Hark  !  hark  !  the  rebec  calls, — Glycere 

Again  may  foot  it  on  the  green ; 
Her  rivalry  I  need  not  fear, 

This  wreath  shall  crown  the  Village  Queen. 

OLD  MAN. 
You  long  have  known  this  tranquil  ground  ? 

YOUNG  GIRL. 

Indeed  it  all  seems  marr'd  to  me. 


90  GLYCERE. 

OLD  MAN. 

Light  heart !  who  sleeps  beneath  this  mound 

Was  fairest  of  yon  company  : 
The  flowers  to  eclipse  Glycere 
Are  hers,  poor  child.     Her  grave  is  here  ! 


THE  CROSSING-SWEEPER. 

THE   SUTTEE. 

A    CROSSING-SWEEPER,  black  and  tan, 
<L\.  Told  how  he  came  from  Hindostan, 
And  why  he  wore  a  hat,  and  shunrtd 
The  Ryals  of  the  Pugree  Bund. 

My  wife  was  fair,  she  worshipp'd  me, 

Her  father  was  a  Caradee, 

His  deity  was  aquatile, 

A  rough  and  tough  old  Crocodile. 

To  gratify  this  monster's  maw 

He  sacrificed  his  sons-in-law; 

I  married,  though  the  neighbours  said  he 

Had  lost  five  sons-in-law  already. 

Her  father,  when  he  play'd  his  pranks, 
Proposed  "  a  turn  on  Jumna's  banks ;" 
He  spoke  so  kind,  she  seem'd  so  glum, 
I  felt  convinced  that  mine  had  come. 


92  THE   CROSSING-SWEEPER. 

I  fled  before  this  artful  ruse 
To  cook  my  too-confiding  goose, 
And  now  I  sweep,  in  chill  despair, 
A  crossing  in  St.  James's  Square  ; 

Some  old  Qui-hy,  some  rural  flat 
May  drop  a  sixpence  in  my  hat ; 
Yet  still  I  mourn  the  mango-tree 
Where  Azla  first  grew  fond  of  me. 

These  rogues,  who  swear  my  skin  is  tawny, 
Would  pawn  their  own  for  brandy-pawnee; 
What  matter  if  their  skins  are  snowy, — 
As  Chloe  fair  ?    They're  drunk  as  Chloe  ! 

Your  town  is  vile.     In  Thames' s  stream 
The  crocodiles  get  up  the  steam ! 
Your  Juggernauts  their  victims  bump 
From  Camberwell  to  Aldgate  pump ! 

A  year  ago,  come  Candlemas, 
I  woo'd  a  plump  Feringhee  lass  ; 
United  at  her  idol  fane, 
I  furnish'd  rooms  in  Idol  Lane. 

A  moon  had  waned  when  virtuous  Emma 
Involved  me  in  a  new  dilemma : 
The  Brahma  faith,  that  Emma  scorns, 
Impaled  me  tight  on  both  its  horns  : 


THE   CROSSING-SWEEPER.  93 

She  vow'd  to  BURN  if  she  survived  me: 
Of  this  sweet  fancy  she  deprived  me, 
She  ran  from  all  her  obligations, 
And  went  to  stay  with  her  relations. 

My  Azla  weeps  by  Jumna's  deeps, 

But  Emma  mocks  my  trials, 
She  pokes  her  jokes  in  Seven  Oaks, 

At  me  in  Seven  Dials, — 
I'm  dasttd  if  these  Feringhee  folks 

Ain't  rather  worse  than  Ryals. 


A  SONG  THAT  WAS  NEVER  SUNG. 


"  'TpHE  well-beloved  are  only  dead 

JL     To  idle  mirth  and  sorrow, 
Regretful  tears  for  what  is  fled, 

And  yearnings  for  to-morrow."  — 
Alas,  that  love  should  know  alloy  ; 
How  frail  the  cup  that  holds  our  joy  ! 

"  How  sweet,  how  passing  sweet  to  rove 

Through  fields  of  asphodel  ; 
Where  all  we've  lost,  and  all  who  love, 

Rejoice  !"  —  Ah,  who  can  tell? 
Yet  sweet  it  were,  knit  hand  in  hand, 
To  lead  thee  through  a  better  land. 

Why  wish  the  fleeting  year  to  stay  ? 

When  time  for  us  is  flown, 
There  is  a  garden,  —  far  away, 

An  Eden  all  our  own  : 
And  there  I'll  whisper  in  thine  ear  — 
Ah  !  what  I  may  not  tell  thee  here  ! 


PUBLISHED  IN  1865 


ON  AN  OLD  MUFF 

TIME  has  a  magic  wand  ! 
What  is  it  meets  my  hand, 
Moth-eaten,  mouldy,  and 

Cover'd  with  fluff  ? 
Faded,  and  stiff,  and  scant ; 
Can  it  be  ?  no,  it  can't — 
Yes, — I  declare  it's  Aunt 
Prudence's  Muff! 

Years  ago,  twenty-three, 
Old  Uncle  Barnaby 
Gave  it  to  Aunty  P 

Laughing  and  teasing — 
"  Pru.,  of  the  breezy  curls, 
Whisper  those  solemn  churls, 
What  holds  a  pretty  girts 

Hand  without  squeezing  ?  " 

Uncle  was  then  a  lad 
Gay,  but,  I  grieve  to  add, 
Sinful ;  if  smoking  bad 
Baccy' s  a  vice  : 
H 


98  ON    AN    OLD    MUFF. 

Glossy  was  then  this  mink 
Muff,  lined  with  pretty  pink 
Satin,  which  maidens  think 
"Awfully  nice!" 


I  seem  to  see  again 

Aunt,  in  her  hood  and  train, 

Glide,  with  a  sweet  disdain, 

Gravely  to  Meeting : 
Psalm-book,  and  kerchief  new, 
Peep'd  from  the  Muff  of  Pru. ; 
Young  men,  and  pious  too, 

Giving  her  greeting. 

Sweetly  her  Sabbath  sped 
Then,  from  this  Muff,  it's  said, 
Tracts  she  distributed  : — 

Converts  (till  Monday !) 
Lured  by  the  grace  they  lack'd, 
Follow'd  her.     One,  in  fact, 
Ask'd  for — and  got  his  tract 

Twice  of  a  Sunday ! 

Love  has  a  potent  spell  \ 
Soon  this  bold  Ne'er-do-well, 
Aunt's  too  susceptible 
Heart  undermining, 


ON    AN    OLD    MUFF'.  99 

Slipt,  so  the  scandal  runs, 
Notes  in  the  pretty  nun's 
Muff,  triple-corner' d  ones, 
Pink  as  its  lining. 

Worse  follow'd,  soon  the  jade 

Fled,  (to  oblige  her  blade  !) 

Whilst  her  friends  thought  that  they'd 

Lock'd  her  up  tightly  : 
After  such  shocking  games 
Aunt  is  of  wedded  dames 
Gayest,  and  now  her  name's 

Mrs.  Golightly. 

In  female  conduct  flaw 
Sadder  I  never  saw, 
Faith  still  I've  in  the  law 

Of  compensation. 
Once  Uncle  went  astray, 
Smoked,  joked,  and  swore  away, 
Sworn  by,  he's  now,  by  a 

Large  congregation. 

Changed  is  the  Child  of  Sin, 
Now  he's  (he  once  was  thin) 
Grave,  with  a  double  chin, — 
Blest  be  his  fat  form  ! 


100  ON    AN    OLD    MUFF. 

Changed  is  the  garb  he  wore, 
Preacher  was  never  more 
Prized  than  is  Uncle  for 
Pulpit  or  platform. 

If  all's  as  best  befits 
Mortals  of  slender  wits, 
Then  beg  the  Muff,  and  its 

Fair  Owner  pardon : 
Airs  for  the  best,  indeed 
Such  is  my  simple  creed, 
Still  I  must  go  and  weed 

Hard  in  my  garden. 

1863. 


AN  INVITATION  TO  ROME,  AND 
THE  REPLY. 

THE    INVITATION. 

OCOME  to  Rome,  it  is  a  pleasant  place, 
Your  London  sun  is  here  seen  smiling  brightly : 
The  Briton  too  puts  on  a  cheery  face, 

And  Mrs.  Bull  is  suave  and  even  sprightly. 
The  Romans  are  a  kind  and  cordial  race, 

The  women  charming,  if  one  takes  them  rightly  ; 
I  see  them  at  their  doors,  as  day  is  closing, 
More  proud  than  duchesses — and  more  imposing. 

A  far  niente  life  promotes  the  graces  ; 

They  pass  from  dreamy  bliss  to  wakeful  glee, 
And  in  their  bearing,  and  their  speech,  one  traces 

A  breadth  of  grace  and  depth  of  courtesy 
That  are  not  found  in  more  inclement  places ; 

Their  clime  and  tongue  seem  much  in  harmony ; 
The  Cockney  met  in  Middlesex,  or  Surrey, 
Is  often  cold — and  always  in  a  hurry. 


,102     ,   tr«  AN    INVITAtiON   TO    ROME, 

Though  far  niente  is  their  passion,  they 

Seem  here  most  eloquent  in  things  most  slight ; 

No  matter  what  it  is  they  have  to  say, 
The  manner  always  sets  the  matter  right : 

And  when  they've  plagued  or  pleased  you  all  the  day, 
They  sweetly  wish  you  "  a  most  happy  night." 

Then,  if  they  fib,  and  if  their  stories  tease  you, 

;Tis  always  something  that  they've  wish'd  to  please 
you ! 


O  come  to  Rome,  nor  be  content  to  read 
Alone  of  stately  palace  and  of  street 

Whose  fountains  ever  run  with  joyful  speed, 
And  never-ceasing  murmur.     Here  we  meet 

Great  Memnon's  monoliths,  or,  gay  with  weed, 
Rich  capitals,  as  corner-stone,  or  seat, 

The  sites  of  vanish'd  temples,  where  now  moulder 

Old  ruin,  hiding  ruin  even  older. 


Ay,  come,  and  see  the  statues,  pictures,  churches, 
Although  the  last  are  commonplace,  or  florid. 

Some  say  'tis  here  that  superstition  perches, 

Myself  I'm  glad  the  marbles  have  been  quarried. 

The  sombre  streets  are  worthy  your  researches  : 
The  ways  are  foul,  the  lava  pavement's  horrid, 

But  pleasant  sights,  that  squeamishness  disparages, 

Are  miss'd  by  all  who  roll  about  in  carriages. 


AND   THE   REPLY.  103 

Anent  one  fane  I  deprecate  all  sneering, 

For  during  Christmas-time  I  went  there  daily, 

Amused,  or  edified,  or  both,  by  hearing 
The  little  preachers  of  the  Ara  Cceli. 

Conceive  a  four-year-old  bambino,  rearing 

Her  small  form  on  a  rostrum, — trick'd  out  gaily, 

And  lisping,  what  for  doctrine  may  be  frightful, 

With  action  most  dramatic  and  delightful. 


O  come  !     We'll  charter  such  a  pair  of  nags  ! 

The  country's  better  seen  when  one  is  riding : 
We'll  roam  where  yellow  Tiber  speeds  or  lags 

At  will.     The  aqueducts  are  yet  bestriding 
With  giant  march  (now  whole,  now  broken  crags 

With  flowers  plumed)  the  swelling  and  subsiding 
Campagna,  girt  by  purple  hills,  afar — 
That  melt  in  light  beneath  the  evening  star. 


A  drive  to  Palestrina  will  be  pleasant, 

The  wild  fig  grows  where  erst  her  rampart  stood ; 
There  oft,  in  goat-skin  clad,  a  sun-burnt  peasant 

Like  Pan  comes  frisking  from  his  ilex  wood, 
And  seems  to  wake  the  past  time  in  the  present. 

Fair  contadina,  mark  his  mirthful  mood, 
No  antique  satyr  he.  The  nimble  fellow 
Can  join  with  jollity  your  saltarello. 


104  AN    INVITATION    TO    ROME, 

Old  sylvan  peace  and  liberty  !     The  breath 

Of  life  to  unsophisticated  man. 

Here  Mirth  may  pipe,   here   Love  may  weave  his 
wreath, 

"  Per  dar1  al  mio  bene"    When  you  can, 
Come  share  their  leafy  solitudes.     Pale  Death 

And  Time  are  grudging  of  our  little  span : 
Wan  Time  speeds  lightly  o'er  the  changing  corn, 
Death  grins  from  yonder  cynical  old  thorn. 


I  dare  not  speak  of  Michael  Angelo — 

Such  theme  were  all  too  splendid  for  my  pen. 

And  if  I  breathe  the  name  of  Sanzio 
(The  brightest  of  Italian  gentlemen), 

Is  it  that  love  casts  out  my  fear,  and  so 

I  claim  with  him  a  kindredship  ?     Ah  !  when 

We  love,  the  name  is  on  our  hearts  engraven, 

As  is  thy  name,  my  own  dear  Bard  of  Avon  ! 


Nor  is  the  Coliseum  theme  of  mine, 
'Twas  built  for  poet  of  a  larger  daring ; 

The  world  goes  there  with  torches,  I  decline 

Thus  to  affront  the  moonbeams  with  their  flaring. 

Some  time  in  May  our  forces  we'll  combine 
(Just  you  and  I),  and  try  a  midnight  airing, 

And  then  I'll  quote  this  rhyme  to  you — and  then 

You'll  muse  upon  the  vanity  of  men. 


AND    THE    REPLY.  105 

0  come  !     I  send  a  leaf  of  April  fern, 

It  grew  where  Beauty  lingers  round  decay : 
The  ashes  buried  in  a  sculptured  urn 

Are  not  more  dead  than  Rome — so  dead  to-day  ! 
That  better  time,  for  which  the  patriots  yearn, 

Enchants  the  gaze,  again  to  fade  away. 
They  wait  and  pine  for  what  is  long  denied, 
And  thus  I  wait  till  thou  art  by  my  side. 

Thou'rt  far  away.!     Yet,  while  I  write,  I  still 
Seem  gently,  Sweet,  to  press  thy  hand  in  mine  ; 

1  cannot  bring  myself  to  drop  the  quill, 

I  cannot  yet  thy  little  hand  resign ! 
The  plain  is  fading  into  darkness  chill, 

The  Sabine  peaks  are  flush'd  with  light  divine, 
I  watch  alone,  my  fond  thought  wings  to  thee ; 
O  come  to  Rome — O  come,  O  come  to  me  ! 

1863. 


THE    REPLY. 


Dear  Exile,  I  was  pleased  to  get 
Your  rhyme,  I've  laid  it  up  in  cotton  ; 

You  know  that  you  are  all  to  "  Pet," 
She  fear'd  that  she  was  quite  forgotten ! 


106  AN    INVITATION    TO    ROME, 

Mamma,  who  scolds  me  when  I  mope, 
Insists — mamma  is  wise  as  gentle — 

That  I  am  still  in  love.     I  hope 
That  you  feel  rather  sentimental. 

Perhaps  you  think  your  Love  for  lore 

Should  pine  unless  her  slave  be  with  her ; 
Of  course  you're  fond  of  Rome,  and,  more — 

Perhaps  you'd  like  to  coax  me  thither ! 
Che!  quit  this  dear  delightful  maze 

Of  calls  and  balls,  to  be  intensely 
Discomfited  in  fifty  ways — 

I  like  your  confidence  immensely  ! 

Some  girls  who  love  to  ride  and  race, 

And  live  for  dancing — like  the  Bruens, 
Confess  that  Rome's  a  charming  place, 

In  spite  of  all  the  stupid  ruins  : 
I  think  it  might  be  sweet  to  pitch 

One's  tent  beside  the  banks  of  Tiber, 
And  all  that  sort  of  thing,  of  which 

Dear  Hawthorne's  "  quite''  the  best  describes 

To  see  stone  pines,  and  marble  gods, 

In  garden  alleys,  red  with  roses, 
The  Perch  where  Pio  Nono  nods ; 

The  Church  where  Raphael  reposes. 
Make  pleasant  giros — when  we  may ; 

Jump  stagionate — where  they're  easy  ; 


AND   THE    REPLY.  107 

And  play  croquet— the  Bruens  say 
There's  turf  behind  the  Ludovisi. 

I'll  bring  my  books,  though  Mrs.  Mee 

Says  packing  books  is  such  a  worry ; 
I'll  bring  my  "  Golden  Treasury," 

Manzoni,  and,  of  course,  a  "  Murray;" 
A  Tupper,  whom  good  people  prize ; 

A  Dante — Auntie  owns  a  quarto — 
I'll  try  and  buy  a  smaller  size, 

And  read  him  on  the  muro  torto. 

But  can  I  go  ?     La  Madre  thinks 

It  would  be  such  an  undertaking  : 
I  wish  we  could  consult  a  sphinx  ; 

The  thought  alone  has  left  her  quaking. 
Papa  (we  do  not  mind  Papa) 

Has  got  some  "  notice  "  of  some  "  motion," 
And  could  not  stay ;  but,  why  not, — Ah, 

I've  not  the  very  slightest  notion. 

The  Browns  have  come  to  stay  a  week, 

They've  brought  the  boys,  I  haven't  thank'd  'em, 
For  Baby  Grand,  and  Baby  Pic, 

Are  playing  cricket  in  my  sanctum  : 
Your  Rover,  too,  affects  my  den, 

And  when  I  pat  the  dear  old  whelp,  it  .  . 
It  makes  me  think  of  you,  and  then  .  . 

And  then  I  cry — I  cannot  help  it. 


108  AN    INVITATION    TO    ROME. 

Ah  yes — before  you  left  me,  ere 

Our  separation  was  impending, 
These  eyes  had  seldom  shed  a  tear, — 

I  thought  my  joy  could  have  no  ending  ! 
But  cloudlets  gathered  soon,  and  this, 

This  was  the  first  that  rose  to  grieve  me — 
To  know  that  I  possess'd  such  bliss, — 

For  then  I  knew  such  bliss  might  leave  me. 

My  thoughts  are  sadder  than  my  rhymes  ! 

But  yours  have  made  my  spirit  better  : 
And  though  perhaps  I  grieve  at  times, 

I'd  meant  to  write  a  cheery  letter ; 
But  skies  were  dull,  Rome  sounded  hot, 

I  fancied  I  could  live  without  it : 
I  thought  I'd  go,  I  thought  I'd  not, 

And  then  I  thought  I'd  think  about  it. 

The  sun  now  glances  o'er  the  Park, 

If  tears  are  on  my  cheek,  they  glitter ; 
I  think  I've  kiss'd  your  rhyme,  for  hark, 

My  "  bulley  "  gives  a  saucy  twitter ! 
Your  blessed  words  extinguish  doubt, 

A  sudden  breeze  is  gaily  blowing, 
And,  hark !     The  minster  bells  ring  out — 

"  She  ought  to  go.     Of  course  she's  going  ! " 

1863. 


GERALDINE. 

A  SIMPLE  child  has  claims 
On  your  sentiment — her  name's 

Geraldine. 

Be  tender,  but  beware, — 

She's  frolicsome  as  fair, — 

And  fifteen. 

She  has  gifts  to  grace  allied, 
Each  gift  she  has  applied, 

And  improved : 

She  has  bliss  that  lives  and  leans 
On  loving,  and  that  means — 

She  is  loved. 

Her  grace  is  grace  refined 
By  sweet  harmony  of  mind  : 

And  the  Art, 

And  the  blessed  Nature,  too, 
Of  a  tender  and  a  true 

Little  heart. 


HO  GERALDINE. 

And  yet  I  must  not  vault 
Over  any  foolish  fault 

That  she  owns  : 
Or  others  might  rebel, 
And  enviously  swell 

In  their  zones. 

She  is  tricksy  as  the  fays, 
Or  her  pussy  when  it  plays 

With  a  string  ; 
She's  a  goose  about  her  cat, 
Her  ribbons,  and  all  that 

Sort  of  thing. 

These  foibles  are  a  blot, 
Still  she  never  can  do  what 

Is  not  nice, 

Such  as  quarrel,  and  give  slaps — 
As  I've  known  her  get,  perhaps, 

Once  or  twice. 

The  spells  that  move  her  soul 
Are  subtle — sad  or  droll : 

She  can  show 
That  virtuoso  whim 
Which  consecrates  our  dim 

Long-ago. 


GERALDINE.  1 1 1 


A  love  that  is  not  sham 

For  Stothard,  Blake,  and  Lamb ; 

And  I've  known 
Cordelia's  wet  eyes 
Cause  angel-tears  to  rise 

In  her  own. 

Her  gentle  spirit  yearns 

When  she  reads  of  Robin  Burns— 

Luckless  Bard, 
Had  she  blossom'd  in  thy  time, 

0  how  rare  had  been  the  rhyme 

— And  reward ! 

Thrice  happy  then  is  he 
Who,  planting  such  a  Tree, 

Sees  it  bloom 
To  shelter  him — indeed 
We  have  sorrow  as  we  speed 

To  our  doom ! 

1  am  happy  having  grown 
Such  a  Sapling  of  my  own  ; 

And  I  crave 

No  garland  for  my  brows, 
But  peace  beneath  its  boughs 

To  the  grave. 

1864. 


THE  HOUSEMAID. 

"  Bright  volumes  of  vapour  through  Lothbury  glide." 

ALONE  she  sits,  with  air  resign'd 
She  watches  by  the  window-blind  : 
Poor  girl !     No  doubt 
The  pilgrims  here  despise  thy  lot : 
Thou  canst  not  stir,  because  'tis  not 
Thy  Sunday  out. 

To  play  a  game  of  hide  and  seek 
With  dust  and  cobweb  all  the  week, 

Small  pleasure  yields : 
O  dear,  how  nice  it  is  to  drop 
One's  pen  and  ink,  one's  pail  and  mop — 

And  scour  the  fields  ! 

Poor  Bodies  few  such  pleasures  know ; 
They  seldom  come.     How  soon  they  go  ! 

But  Souls  can  roam  : 
And,  lapt  in  visions  airy-sweet, 
She  sees  perchance  in  this  dull  street 

Her  own  loved  home  ! 


THE    HOUSEMAID. 

The  road  is  now  no  road.     She  pranks 
A  brawling  stream  with  thymy  banks  ; 

In  Fancy's  realm 

This  post  supports  no  lamp,  aloof 
It  spreads  above  her  parents'  roof, 

A  gracious  elm. 


How  often  has  she  valued  there 
A  father's  aid,  a  mother's  care  : 

She  now  has  neither  : 
And  yet  she  sits,  and  fondly  dreams, 
And  fondly  smiles  on  one  who  seems 

More  dear  than  either. 


The  poor  can  love  through  want  and  pain, 
Although  their  homely  speech  is  fain 

To  halt  in  fetters  : 
They  feel  as  much,  and  do  far  more 
Than  some  of  those  they  bow  before, 

Miscall'd  their  betters. 


Oft  on  a  cloudless  afternoon 
Of  budding  May  and  leafy  June, 

Meet  Sunday  weather, 
I  pass  her  window  by  design, 
And  wish  her  Sunday  out  and  mine 

Might  fall  together. 


114  THE    HOUSEMAID. 

For  sweet  it  were  my  lot  to  dower 

With  one  brief  joy,  one  white-robed  flower  ; 

And  prude,  or  preacher, 
Could  hardly  deem  I  did  amiss 
To  lay  one  on  the  path  of  this 

Forlorn  young  creature. 

Yet  if  her  thought  on  wooing  run, 
And  if  her  swain  and  she  are  one, 

And  fancy  strolling, 
She'd  like  my  nonsense  less  than  his, 
And  so  it's  better  as  it  is — 

And  that's  consoling. 

Her  whereabouts  I  won't  disclose  ! 
Suppose  she's  fair,  her  name  suppose 

Is  Car,  or  Kitty  ; 

She  may  be  Jane — she  might  be  plain — 
For  must  the  object  of  my  strain 

Be  always  pretty  ? 

1864. 


THE  JESTER'S  PLEA. 

These  verses  were  published  in  1862,  in  a  volume  of  Poems  (by  several 
hands),  entitled  "  An  offering  to  Lancashire." 

THE  World's  a  sorry  wench,  akin 
To  all  that's  frail  and  frightful : 
The  World's  as  ugly — ay,  as  Sin, 

And  nearly  as  delightful ! 
The  World's  a  merry  world  (pro  tem.\ 

And  some  are  gay,  and  therefore 
It  pleases  them,  but  some  condemn 
The  World  they  do  not  care  for. 

The  World's  an  ugly  world.     Offend 

Good  people,  how  they  wrangle  ! 
The  manners  that  they  never  mend, 

The  characters  they  mangle  ! 
They  eat,  and  drink,  and  scheme,  and  plod, 

And  go  to  church  on  Sunday ; 
And  many  are  afraid  of  God — 

And  more  of  Mrs.  Grundy. 


Ti6  THE  JESTER'S  PLEA. 

The  time  for  Pen  and  Sword  was  when 

"  My  ladye  fayre,"  for  pity 
Could  tend  her  wounded  knight,  and  then 

Be  tender  at  his  ditty. 
Some  ladies  now  make  pretty  songs, 

And  some  make  pretty  nurses  : 
Some  men  are  great  at  righting  wrongs, — 

And  some  at  writing  verses. 


I  wish  we  better  understood 

The  tax  that  poets  levy ! 
I  know  the  Muse  is  goody  good, 

I  think  she's  rather  heavy : 
She  now  compounds  for  winning  ways 

By  morals  of  the  sternest, 
Methinks  the  lays  of  nowadays 

Are  painfully  in  earnest. 


When  Wisdom  halts,  I  humbly  try 

To  make  the  most  of  Folly : 
If  Pallas  be  unwilling,  I 

Prefer  to  flirt  with  Polly ; 
To  quit  the  goddess  for  the  maid 

Seems  low  in  lofty  musers ; 
But  Pallas  is  a  lofty  jade — 

And  beggars  can't  be  choosers. 


THE  JESTER'S  PLEA.  117 

I  do  not  wish  to  see  the  slaves 

Of  party,  stirring  passion, 
Or  psalms  quite  superseding  staves, 

Or  piety  "  the  fashion." 
I  bless  the  hearts  where  pity  glows, 

Who,  here  together  banded, 
Are  holding  out  a  hand  to  those 

That  wait  so  empty-handed ! 

A  righteous  Work  !     My  masters,  may 

A  Jester  by  confession, 
Scarce  noticed  join,  half  sad,  half  gay, 

The  close  of  your  procession  ? 
The  motley  here  seems  out  of  place 

With  graver  robes  to  mingle, 
But  if  one  tear  bedews  his  face, 

Forgive  the  bells  their  jingle. 


TO  MY  MISTRESS. 

O  COUNTESS,  year  succeeding  year 
Can  show  that  Time  is  wasting  here  ; 
He  soon  will  do  his  worst  by  you, 
And  garner  all  your  roses  too. 

It  pleases  Time  to  fold  his  wings 
Around  our  best  and  brightest  things ; 
He'll  mar  your  damask  cheek,  as  now 
He  stamps  his  mark  upon  my  brow. 

The  same  mute  planets  rise  and  shine 
To  rule  your  days  and  nights  as  mine : 
Once  I  was  young  as  you, — and  see  !  .  . 
What  I  am  now  you  soon  will  be. 

And  yet  I  bear  a  certain  charm 
That  shields  me  from  your  worst  alarm ; 
And  bids  me  gaze,  with  front  sublime, 
On  all  the  ravages  of  Time. 


TO   MY   MISTRESS.  119 

You  boast  a  charm  that  all  men  prize  : 
This  gift  of  mine,  that  you  despise, 
May,  like  enough,  be  still  my  own 
When  all  your  vaunt  has  paled  and  gone. 

My  charm  may  long  embalm  the  lures 
Of  eyes, — ah,  sweet  to  me  as  yours  : 
And  ages  hence  the  great  and  good 
Will  judge  you  as  I  choose  they  should. 

In  days  to  come  the  count  or  clown, 
With  whom  I  still  shall  win  renown, 
Will  only  know  that  you  were  fair 
Because  I  chanced  to  say  you  were. 

Proud  Lady  !  scornful  beauty  mocks 
At  aged  heads  and  silver  locks  ; 
But  think  awhile  before  you  try 
To  scorn  a  poet  such  as  I. 

KENWOOD,  July  21,  1864. 


MY  MISTRESS'S  BOOTS. 

THEY  nearly  strike  me  dumb, 
And  I  tremble  when  they  come 
Pit-a-pat : 

This  palpitation  means 
That  these  Boots  are  Geraldine's — 
Think  of  that ! 

O  where  did  hunter  win 
So  delectable  a  skin 

For  her  feet  ? 
You  lucky  little  kid, 
You  perish'd,  so  you  did, 

For  my  sweet ! 

The  faery  stitching  gleams 

On  the  sides,  and  in  the  seams, 

And  it  shows 

That  the  Pixies  were  the  wags 
Who  tipt  these  funny  tags, 

And  these  toes. 


MY   MISTRESS  S    BOOTS. 

The  simpletons  who  squeeze 
Their  extremities  to  please 

Mandarins, 

Would  positively  flinch 
From  venturing  to  pinch 

Geraldine's. 


What  soles  to  charm  an  elf! 
Had  Crusoe,  sick  of  self, 

Chanced  to  view 
One  printed  near  the  tide, 
O  how  hard  he  would  have  tried 

For  the  two  ! 


For  Gerry's  debonair, 
And  innocent,  and  fair 

As  a  rose : 

She's  an  angel  in  a  frock, 
With  a  fascinating  cock 

To  her  nose. 


Cinderella's  lefts  and  rights 
To  Geraldine's  were  frights : 

And,  I  trow, 
The  damsel,  deftly  shod, 
Has  dutifully  trod 

Until  now. 


MY    MISTRESS  S    BOOTS. 

Come,  Gerry,  since  it  suits 
Such  a  pretty  Puss  (in  Boots) 

These  to  don, 
Set  this  dainty  hand  awhile 
On  my  shoulder,  dear,  and  I'll 

Put  them  on. 

June  29,  1864. 


THE  ROSE  AND  THE  RING. 

(Christmas  1854,  and  Christmas  1863.) 

SHE  smiles,  but  her  heart  is  in  sable, 
Ay,  sad  as  her  Christmas  is  chill : 
She  reads,  and  her  book  is  the  fable 

He  penn'd  for  her  while  she  was  ill. 
It  is  nine  years  ago  since  he  wrought  it, 

Where  reedy  old  Tiber  is  king ; 
And  chapter  by  chapter  he  brought  it, 
And  read  her  the  Rose  and  the  Ring. 

And  when  it  was  printed,  and  gaining 

Renown  with  all  lovers  of  glee, 
He  sent  her  this  copy  containing 

His  comical  little  croquis  ; 
A  sketch  of  a  rather  droll  couple, 

She's  pretty,  he's  quite  t'other  thing ! 
He  begs  (with  a  spine  vastly  supple) 

She  will  study  the  Rose  and  the  Ring. 


124  THE    ROSE    AND    THE    RING. 

It  pleased  the  kind  Wizard  to  send  her 

The  last  and  the  best  of  his  toys  ; 
His  heart  had  a  sentiment  tender 

For  innocent  women  and  boys : 
And  though  he  was  great  as  a  scorner, 

The  guileless  were  safe  from  his  sting : 
O  how  sad  is  past  mirth  to  the  mourner ! 

A  tear  on  the  Rose  and  the  Ring ! 

She  reads,  I  may  vainly  endeavour 

Her  mirth-chequer'd  grief  to  pursue, 
For  she  hears  she  has  lost,  and  for  ever, 

A  heart  that  was  known  by  so  few ; 
But  I  wish  on  the  shrine  of  his  glory 

One  fair  little  blossom  to  fling ; 
And  you  see  there's  a  nice  little  story 

Attach'd  to  the  Rose  and  the  Ring ! 

1864. 


i863. 

These  verses  were  published  in  1863,  in  "A  Welcome,"  dedicated  to 
the  Princess  of  Wales. 

THE  town  despises  modern  lays  : 
The  foolish  town  is  frantic 
For  story-books  that  tell  of  days 
That  time  has  made  romantic : 
Of  days  whose  chiefest  lore  lies  chill 

And  dead  in  crypt  and  barrow ; 
When  soldiers  were,  as  Loves  are  still — 
Content  with  bow  and  arrow. 

But  why  should  we  the  fancy  chide  ? 

The  world  will  always  hunger 
To  know  how  people  lived  and  died 

When  all  the  world  was  younger. 
We  like  to  read  of  knightly  parts 

In  maidenhood's  distresses, 
Of  tryst  with  sunshine  in  light  hearts, 

And  moonbeam  on  dark  tresses ; 


126  1863. 

And  how,  when  errante-knyghte  or  erl 

Proved  well  the  love  he  gave  her, 
She  sent  him  scarf  or  silken  curl, 

As  earnest  of  her  favour ; 
And  how  (the  Fair  at  times  were  rude !) 

Her  knight,  ere  homeward  riding, 
Would  take,  and,  ay,  with  gratitude, 

His  lady's  silver  chiding. 


We  love  the  rare  old  days  and  rich, 

That  poesy  has  painted  ; 
We  mourn  the  good  old  times  with  which 

We  never  were  acquainted. 
To-day  a  lady  tried  to  prove, 

And  not  a  lady  youthful, 
"  Ah,  once  it  was  no  crime  to  love, 

Nor  folly  to  be  truthful !" 


Pooh  !     Damsels  then  in  castles  dwelt, 

Nor  dared  to  show  their  noses  : 
Then  passion  that  could  not  be  spelt, 

Was  hinted  at  in  posies. 
Such  shifts  make  modern  Cupid  laugh  :- 

Now  sweethearts,  in  love's  tremor, 
Can  tell  their  vows  by  telegraph, 

And  go  off  in  the  steamer  ! 


1863.  127 

The  earth  is  yet  our  Mother  Earth, 

Young  shepherds  yet  fling  capers 
In  flowery  groves  that  ring  with  mirth. 

Where  old  ones  read  the  papers. 
Romance,  as  tender  and  as  true, 

Our  Isle  has  never  quitted : 
So  lad  and  lassie  when  they  woo 

Are  hardly  to  be  pitied  ! 

0  yes  !  young  love  is  lovely  yet, 
With  faith  and  honour  plighted  : 

1  love  to  see  a  pair  so  met, 
Youth — Beauty — all  united. 

Such  dear  ones  may  they  ever  wear 

The  roses  Fortune  gave  them  : 
Ah,  know  we  such  a  Blessed  Pair  ? 

I  think  we  do  !     GOD  SAVE  THEIM  ! 

Our  lot  is  cast  on  pleasant  days, 

In  not  unpleasant  places — 
Young  ladies  now  have  pretty  ways, 

As  well  as  pretty  faces ; 
So  never  sigh  for  what  has  been, 

And  let  us  cease  complaining 
That  we  have  loved  when  Our  Dear  Queen 

VICTORIA  was  reigning  ! 


MRS.  SMITH. 

LAST  year  I  trod  these  fields  with  Di, 
And  that's  the  simple  reason  why 
They  now  seem  arid  : 
Then  Di  was  fair  and  single ;  how 
Unfair  it  seems  on  me,  for  now 
Di's  fair — and  married  ! 

In  bliss  we  roved  :  I  scorn'd  the  song 
Which  says  that  though  young  Love  is  strong, 

The  Fates  are  stronger : 
Breezes  then  blew  a  boon  to  men, 
Then  buttercups  were  bright,  and  then 

This  grass  was  longer. 

That  day  I  saw,  and  much  esteem'd 
Di's  ankles,  which  the  clover  seem'd 

Inclined  to  smother : 
It  twitch'd,  and  soon  untied  (for  fun) 
The  ribbon  of  her  shoes,  first  one 

And  then  the  other. 


MRS.    SMITH.  129 

I'm  told  that  virgins  augur  some 
Misfortune  if  their  shoe-strings  come 

To  grief  on  Friday : 
And  so  did  Di,  and  then  her  pride 
Decreed  that  shoe-strings  so  untied 

Are  "  so  untidy  ! " 


Of  course  I  knelt,  with  fingers  deft 
I  tied  the  right,  and  tied  the  left : 

Says  Di,  "  The  stubble 
Is  very  stupid — as  I  live 
I'm  shock'd — I'm  quite  ashamed  to  give 

You  so  much  trouble." 


For  answer  I  was  fain  to  sink 

To  what  we  all  would  say  and  think 

Were  Beauty  present : 
"  Don't  mention  such  a  simple  act, — 
A  trouble  ?  not  the  least.     In  fact, 

It's  rather  pleasant." 

I  trust  that  Love  will  never  tease 
Poor  little  Di,  or  prove  that  he's 

A  graceless  rover. 
She's  happy  now  as  Mrs.  Smith — 
And  less  polite  when  walking  with 

Her  chosen  lover ! 
K 


130  MRS.  SMITH. 

Heigh-ho  !     Although  no  moral  clings 
To  Di's  blue  eyes,  and  sandal  strings, 

We've  had  our  quarrels  ! — 
I  think  that  Smith  is  thought  an  ass, 
I  know  that  when  they  walk  in  grass 

She  wears  balmorals. 

1864. 


JANET. 

I  SEE  her  portrait  hanging  there, 
Her  face,  but  only  half  as  fair, 
And  while  I  scan  it, 

Old  thoughts  come  back,  by  new  thoughts  met- 
She  smiles.     I  never  can  forget 
The  smile  of  Janet. 

A  matchless  grace  of  head  and  hand, 
Can  art  portray  an  air  more  grand  ? 

It  cannot — can  it  ? 

And  then  the  brow,  the  lips,  the  eyes— 
You  look  as  if  you  could  despise 

Devotion,  Janet ! 

I  knew  her  as  a  child,  and  said 
She  ought  to  have  inhabited 

A  brighter  planet : 

Some  seem  more  meet  for  angel  wings 
Than  Mother  Nature's  apron  strings, — 

And  so  did  Janet. 


132  JANET. 

She  grew  in  beauty,  and  in  pride, 
Her  waist  was  trim,  and  once  I  tried, 

In  sport,  to  span  it 
At  Church,  with  only  this  result, 
They  threatened  with  quicunque  vult 

Both  me  and  Janet. 


Fairer  she  grew,  till  Love  became 
In  me  a  very  ardent  flame, 

With  Faith  to  fan  it : 
Alack,  I  play'd  the  fool,  and  she — 
The  fault  of  both  lay  much  with  me, 

But  more  with  Janet. 

For  Janet  chose  a  cruel  part, — 
How  many  win  a  tender  heart, 

And  then  trepan  it ! 
She  left  my  bark  to  swim  or  sink, 
Nor  seem'd  to  care — and  yet  I  think 

You  liked  me,  Janet. 

The  old  old  tale  !  you  know  the  rest — 
The  heart  that  slumber'd  in  her  breast 

Was  hard  as  granite  : 
Who  breaks  a  heart,  and  then  omits 
To  gather  up  the  broken  bits, 

Is  heartless,  Janet ! 


JANET.  1 33 

I'm  wiser  now,  for  when  I  curse 

My  Fate,  a  voice  cries,  "  Bad  or  worse, 

You  must  not  ban  it  : 
Take  comfort,  you  are  quits,  for  if 
You  mourn  a  love,  stark  dead  and  stiff, 

Why  so  does  Janet." 


1864. 


IMPLORA  PACE. 

IS  life  at  best  a  weary  round 
Of  mingled  joy  and  woe  ? 
How  soon  my  passing  knell  will  sound  ! 

Is  Death  a  friend  or  foe  ? 
My  days  are  often  sad,  and  vain 
Is  much  that  tempts  me  to  remain — 
And  yet  I'm  loth  to  go. 

0  must  I  tread  yon  silent  shore, 

Go  hence,  and  then  be  seen  no  more  ? 

1  love  to  think  that  those  I  loved 

May  gather  round  the  bier 
Of  him  who,  if  he  erring  proved, 

Still  held  them  more  than  dear. 
My  friends  grow  fewer  day  by  day, 
Yes,  one  by  one  they  drop  away, 

And  if  I  shed  no  tear, 
Departed  shades,  while  life  endures, 
This  poor  heart  yearns  for  love — and  yours. 


IMPLORA   PACE.  135 

When  I  am  gone  will  any  eye 

Shed  tears  behind  the  hearse  ? 
Will  any  one  survivor  cry, 

"  I  could  have  spared  a  worse — 
We  never  spoke ;  we  never  met ; 
I  never  heard  his  voice  ;  and  yet 

I  loved  him  for  his  verse  ?  " 
Such  love  would  roake  the  flowers  wave 
In  gladness  on  their  poet's  grave. 

A  few,  few  years  !  like  one  short  week 

Will  pass,  and  leave  behind 
A  stone  moss-grown,  that  none  will  seek, 

And  none  would  care  to  find. 
Then  I  shall  sleep,  and  find  release 
In  perfect  rest — the  perfect  peace 

For  which  my  soul  has  pined ; — 
And  men  will  love,  and  weary  men 
Will  sue  for  quiet  slumber  then. 


SIR  GYLES  GYLES. 

"Notissimum  illud  Phaedri,  Gallus  quum  tauro." 

UPPE,  lazie  Joon  !  'tis  mornynge  prime, 
The  cockke  of  redde  redde  combe 
This  thrice  hath  crowed,  'tis  past  the  time 
To  drive  the  olde  bulle  home. 

Goe  fling  a  rope  about  his  hornnes, 

And  lead  him  safelie  here  : 
Long  since  Sir  Gyles,  who  slumber  scornes, 

Doth  angle  in  the  weir. 

And  knaves  and  wenches,  less  adoe, 

Our  Ladye  is  astir  : 
By  cockke  and  pie  she  lutes  it  too 

Behynde  the  silver  fir. 

His  Spanish  hat  he  bravelie  weares, 
With  feathere  droopynge  wide, 

In  doublet  fyne,  Sir  Valentyne 
Is  seated  by  her  side. 


SIR   GYLES   GYLES.  137 

Small  care  they  share,  that  blissfulle  pair ; 

She  dons  her  kindest  smyles  ; 
His  songes  invite  and  quite  delighte 

The  wyfe  of  good  Sir  Gyles. 

But  pert  young  pages  point  their  thumbes, 

Her  maids  look  slye,  in  shorte 
All  wondere  how  the  old  Knyghte  comes 

To  tarrie  at  his  sporte. 

There  is  a  sudden  stir  at  last ; 

Men  run,  and  then,  with  dread, 
They  vowe  Sir  Gyles  is  dying  fast ! 

And  then — Sir  Gyles  is  dead  ! 

The  bulle  hath  caughte  him  near  the  thornes 

They  call  the  ParsonnJs  Plotte; 
The  bulle  hath  tost  him  on  his  hornnes, 

Before  the  brute  is  shotte. 

Now  Ladye  Gyles  is  sorelie  tryd, 

And  sinks  beneath  the  shockke  : 
She  weeps  from  morn  to  eventyd, 

And  on  till  crowe  of  cockke. 

And  tho'  the  sun  returns,  and  though 

Another  morninge  smiles, 
No  cockke  will  crow,  no  bulle  will  low 

Agen  for  pore  Sir  Gyles. 


138  SIR   GYLES    GYLES. 

And  now  the  knyghte,  as  seemeth  beste, 
Is  layd  in  hallowed  mould ; 

All  in  the  mynstere  crypt,  where  rest 
His  gallant  sires  and  olde. 


But  first  they  take  the  olde  bulle's  hide 
And  crest,  to  form  a  shroud  : 

And  when  Sir  Gyles  is  wrapp'd  inside 
His  people  wepe  aloud. 

Sir  Valentyne  doth  well  incline 
To  soothe  my  lady's  woe ; 

And  soon  she  slepes,  nor  ever  wepes, 
An  all  the  cockkes  should  crowe. 


Ay,  soone  they  are  in  wedlock  tied, 
Full  soon ;  and  all,  in  fyne, 

That  spouse  can  say  to  chere  his  bride, 
That  sayth  Sir  Valentyne. 

And  gay  agen  are  maids  and  men, 
Nor  knyghte  nor  ladye  mournes, 

Though  Valentyne  may  trembel  when 
He  sees  a  bulle  with  hornnes. 


SIR    GYLES   GYLES.  139 

My  wife  and  I  once  visited 

The  scene  of  all  this  woe, 
Which  fell  out  (so  the  curate  said) 

Four  hundred  years  ago. 

It  needs  no  search  to  find  a  church 

That  all  the  land  adorns, 
We  pass'd  the  weir,  I  thought  with  fear 

About  the  olde  bulk's  hornnes. 

No  cock  then  crow'd,  no  bull  there  low'd, 

But  while  we  paced  the  aisles, 
The  curate  told  his  tale,  and  show'd 

A  tablet  to  Sir  Giles. 

"  'Twas  raised  by  Lady  Giles,"  he  said, 

And  when  I  bent  the  knee  I 
Made  out  his  name,  and  arms,  and  read, 

HlC  JACET  SERVVS  DEI. 

Says  I,  "  And  so  he  sleeps  below, 
His  wrongs  all  left  behind  him." 

My  wife  cried  "  O  !  " — the  clerk  said,  "  No, 
At  least  we  could  not  find  him. 

"  Last  spring,  repairing  some  defect, 

We  raised  the  carven  stones, 
Designing  to  again  collect 

And  hide  Sir  Giles's  bones. 


140  SIR   GYLES   GYLES. 

"  We  dug  adown,  and  up,  and  round, 

For  many  weary  morns, 
Through  all  this  ground ;  but  only  found 

An  ancient  pair  of  horns." 


MR.  PLACID'S  FLIRTATION. 

"  Jemima  was  cross,  and  I  lost  my  umbrella 
That  day  at  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metclla." 

Letters  front  Rome. 

MISS  TRISTRAM'S  poulet  ended  thus:   "Nota 
bene, 

We  meet  for  croquet  in  the  Aldobrandini." 
Said  my  wife,  "  Then  I'll  drive,  and  you'll  ride  with 

Selina" 
(The  fair  spouse  of  Jones,  of  the  Via  Sistina). 

We  started  :  I'll  own  that  my  family  deem 

That  I'm  soft,  but  I'm  not  quite  so  soft  as  I  seem ; 

As   we   cross'd  the  stones  gently  a  nursemaid  said 

"La- 
There  goes  Mrs.  Jones  with  Miss  Placid's  papa  ! " 

Our  friends,  one  or  two  may  be  mentioned  anon, 
Had  arranged  rendezvous  at  the  Gate  of  St.  John  : 
That  pass'd,  off  we  spun  over  turf  that's  not  green 

there, 
And  soon  were  all  met  at  the  villa.     You've  been 

there  ? 


142  MR.  PLACID'S  FLIRTATION. 

I  will  try  and  describe,  or  I  won't,  if  you  please, 
The  good  cheer  that  was  set  for  us  under  the  trees  : 
You  have  read  the  menu,  may  you  read  it  again ; 
Champagne,  perigord,  galantine,  and — champagne. 

Suffice  it  to  say  I  got  seated  between 

Mrs.  Jones  and  old  Brown — to  the  latter^s  chagrin. 

Poor  Brown,  who  believes  in  himself — and,  another 

thing, 
Whose  talk  is  so  bald,  but  whose  cheeks  are  so — 

t'other  thing. 

She  sang,  her  sweet  voice  fill'd  the  gay  garden  alleys ; 
I  jested,  but  Brown  would  not  smile  at  my  sallies  ; — 
Selina  remark'd  that  a  swell  met  at  Rome 
Is  not  always  a  swell  when  you  meet  him  at  home. 

The  luncheon  despatch'd,  we  adjourn'd  to  croquet, 
A  dainty,  but  difficult  sport  in  its  way. 
Thus  I  counsel  the  sage,  who  to  play  at  it  stoops,— 
Belabour  thy  neighbour •,  and  spoon  through  thy  hoops. 

Then  we  strolPd,  and  discourse  found  its  kindest  of 

tones : 

"  O  how  charming  were  solitude  and — Mrs.  Jones." 
"  Indeed,  Mr.  Placid,  I  dote  on  the  sheeny 
And  shadowy  paths  of  the  Aldobrandini." 


MR.  PLACID'S  FLIRTATION.  143 

A  girl  came  with  violet  posies,  and  two 
Gentle  eyes,  like  her  violets,  laden  with  dew, 
And  a  kind  of  an  indolent,  fine-lady  air, — 
As  if  she  by  accident  found  herself  there. 


I  bought  one.     Selina  was  pleased  to  accept  it ; 
She  gave  me  a  rosebud  to  keep — and  I've  kept  it. 
Thus  the  moments  flew  by,  and  I  think,  in  my  heart, 
When  one  vow'd  one   must  go, — two  were  loth  to 
depart. 

The  twilight  is  near,  we  no  longer  can  stay ; 
The  steeds  are  remounted,  and  wheels  roll  away. 
The  ladies  condemn  Mrs.  Jones,  as  the  phrase  is, 
But  vie  with  each  other  in  chanting  my  praises. 

"  He  has  so  much  to  say,"  cries  the  fair  Mrs.  Legge  ; 
"  How  amusing  he  was  about  missing  the  peg  ! " 
"What  a   beautiful  smile!"   says  the  plainest   Miss 

Gunn. 
All  echo,  "  He's  charming  !  delightful !     What  fun  !" 


This  sounds  rather  nice,  and  it's  perfectly  clear  it 
Had  sounded  more  nice  had  I  happen'd  to  hear  it ; 
The  men  were  less  civil,  and  gave  me  a  rub, 
So  I  happen'd  to  hear  when  I  went  to  the  Club. 


144  MR.    PLACID  S    FLIRTATION. 

Says  Brown,  "  I  shall  drop  Mr.  Placid's  society ; " 

(Brown  is  a  prig  of  improper  propriety;) 

"  Hang   him,"    said    Smith    (who    from    cant's    not 

exempt), 
"  Why,  he'll  bring  immorality  into  contempt.17 

Says  I  (to  myself),  when  I  found  me  alone, 

"  My  dear  wife  has  my  heart,  is  it  always  her  own  ?" 

And  further,  says  I  (to  myself),  "  I'll  be  shot 

If  I  know  if  Selina  adores  me  or  not." 

Says  Jones,  "  I've  just  come  from  the  scavi,  at  Veil, — 
I've  bought  some  remarkably  fine  scarabaei !  " 


TO  PARENTS  AND  GUARDIANS. 

PAPA  was  deep  in  weekly  bills, 
Mamma  was  doing  Fanny's  frills, 
Her  gentle  face  full 
Of  woe  j  said  she,  "  I  do  declare 
He  can't  go  back  in  such  a  PAIR, 
They're  quite  disgraceful !  " 

"  Confound  it,"  quoth  Papa — perhaps 
The  ban  was  deeper,  but  the  lapse 

Of  time  has  drown'd  it : 
And  yet  what  reason  to  suppose 
He  utter'd  worse, — for  goodness  knows 

He  MEANT  Confound  it ! 

The  butcher's  book,  that  needful  diary, 
Had  made  my  father's  temper  fiery, 

And  bubble  over : 

So  quite  in  spite  he  flung  it  down, — 
And  spilt  the  ink,  and  spoilt  his  own 

New  table-cover 
L 


146        TO  PARENTS  AND  GUARDIANS. 

Of  scarlet  cloth  !     Papa  cried  "  pish  ! " 
(Which  did  not  mean  he  did  not  wish 

He'd  been  more  heedful) : 
"  But  luckily  this  cloth  will  dip, 
And  make  a  famous  PAIR — get  Snip 

To  do  the  needful.'' 


'Twas  thus  that  I  went  back  to  school 
In  garb  no  boy  could  ridicule, 

And  soon  becoming 
A  jolly  child,  I  plunged  in  debt 
For  tarts,  and  promised  fair  to  get 

The  prize  for  summing. 

But  O  !  my  schoolmates  soon  began 
Again  to  mock  my  outward  man, 

And  make  me  hate  'em  ! 
Long  sitting  will  broadcloth  abrade, 
The  dye  wore  off,  and  so  display'd 

A  red  substratum ! 


To  both  my  parents  then  I  flew — 
Mamma  shed  tears,  Papa  cried  "  Pooh, 

Come,  stop  this  racket : " 
He'd  still  some  cloth,  so  Snip  was  bid 
To  stitch  me  on  two  tails ;  he  did — 

And  spoilt  my  jacket ! 


TO   PARENTS   AND   GUARDIANS.  147 

And  then  the  boys,  despite  my  wails, 
Would  slily  come  and  lift  my  tails, 

And  smack  me  soundly. 
O  weak  Mamma  !    O  wrathful  Dad  ! 
Although  your  doings  drove  me  mad, 

Ye  loved  me  fondly. 

Good  friends,  your  Little  Ones  (who  feel 
These  bitter  woes,  which  only  heal 

As  wisdom  mellows) 
Need  sympathy  in  deed  and  word ; 
So  never  let  them  look  absurd 

Beside  their  fellows. 

My  wife  respects  the  THINGS  I've  doff'd, 
And  guards  them  carefully,  and  oft, 

She'll  take  and — air  them  ! 
The  little  Puss  adores  this  PAIR, 
And  yet  she  doesn't  seem  to  care 

That  I  should  wear  them. 


BEGGARS. 

I  AM  pacing  Pall  Mall  in  a  rapt  reverie, 
I  am  thinking  if  Sophy  is  thinking  of  me, 
When  I'm  roused  by  a  ragged  and  shivering  wretch, 
Who  appears  to  be  well  on  his  way  to  Jack  Ketch. 

He  has  got  a  bad  face,  and  a  shocking  bad  hat ; 
A  comb  in  his  fist,  and  he  sees  I'm  a  flat, 
For  he  says,  "  Buy  a  comb,  it's  a  fine  un  to  wear ; 
Only  try  it,  my  Lord,  through  your  whiskers  and  'air." 

He  eyes  my  gold  chain,  as  if  anxious  to  crib  it ; 
He  looks  just  as  if  he'd  been  blown  from  a  gibbet. 
I  pause  .  .  .  and  pass  on,  and  beside  the  club  fire 
I  settle  that  Sophy  is  all  I  desire. 

As  I  walk  from  the  club,  and  am  deep  in  a  strophe 
That  rolls  upon  all  that's  delicious  in  Sophy, 
I'm  humbly  address'd  by  an  "  object "  unnerving — 
So  tatter'd  a  dame  must  be  "highly  deserving." 


BEGGARS.  149 

She  begs,  and  I'm  touch'd,  but  I've  much  circumspec- 
tion: 

I  stifle  remorse  with  a  soothing  reflection — 
That  cases  of  vice  are  by  no  means  a  rarity — 
The  worst  vice  of  all's  indiscriminate  charity. 

Am  I  right  ?     How  I  wish  that  our  clerical  guides 
Would  settle  this  question  and  others  besides ! 
For  always  to  harden  one's  fiddle-strings  thus, 
If  wholesome  for  beggars,  is  hurtful  for  us. 

A  few  minutes  later  (how  pleasant  for  me  !) 

I'm  seated  by  Sophy  at  five-o'clock  tea  : 

Her  table  is  loaded,  for  when  a  girl  marries, 

What  bushels  of  rubbish  they  send  her  from  Barry 's  ! 

"  There's  a  present  for  you,  Sir ! "     Yes,  thanks  to  her 

thrift, 

My  pet  has  been  able  to  buy  me  a  gift : 
And  she  slips  in  my  hand,  the  delightfully  sly  thing  ! 
A  paper-weight  form'd  of  a  bronze  lizard  writhing. 

"  What  a  charming  cadeau !  and,"  said  I,  "  so  well 

made, 

But  perhaps  you  don't  know,  you  extravagant  jade, 
That  in  casting  this  metal  a  live,  harmless  lizard 
Was  cruelly  tortured  in  ghost  and  in  gizzard?" 


150  BEGGARS. 

"  Pooh,  pooh,"  said  my  lady  (I  ought  to  defend  her, 
Her  head  may  be  giddy,  her  heart  must  be  tender), 
"  Hopgarten  protests  they've  no  feeling,  and  so 
It  was  only  their  muscular  movement,  you  know." 

Thinks  I — when  I've  said  au  revoir,  and  depart 
(A  Comb  in  my  pocket,  a  Weight  at  my  heart), 
And  when  wretched  mendicants  writhe,  we've  a  notion 
That  begging  is  only  a  muscular  motion. 


LITTLE  PITCHER. 

(A  BIRTHDAY  ODE.) 

Muse  (for  the  muse  is  a  Mentor  of  mine) 
-L    Observes  that  to-day  Little  Pitcher  is  nine  ! 
'Tis  her  fete! — so,  although  retrospection  is  pleasant. 
We'll  muse  on  her  past,  but  we'll  think  of  her  Present^ 

A  Gift ! — In  their  praise  though  we've  raved,  sung,  and 

written, 

I  don't  care  to  give  her  a  puppy  or  kitten ; 
Though  their  virtues  I've  heard  Little  Pitcher  extol : 
She's  old  for  a  watch,  and  she's  young  for  a  doll ! 

Of  a  worthless  old  Block  she's  the  dearest  of  Chips, 
For  what  nonsense  she  talks  when  she  opens  her  lips. 
Then    her  mouth   when   she's    laughing,    indeed    it 

appears 
To  exult  at  the  tips  of  her  comical  EARS. 


152  LITTLE   PITCHER. 

Her  Ears  !  ah,  her  Ears  !  I  remember  the  squalling 
With  which  mine  were  greeted,  when  Rambert  and 

Lawling 

Were  boring  (as  I  do)  her  Organs  of  Hearing — 
Come  !     I'll  give  her  for  each  of  those  Organs  an 

Earring ! 

Here  goes  !     They  are  form'd  of  the  two  scarabaei 
I  bought  of  the  old  contadino  at  Veii. 
They  cost  a  ism  pauls,  but,  as  history  shows, 
For  what  runs  through  the  Ears,  we  must  pay  through 
the  Nose. 

And  now,  Little  Pitcher,  give  ear  to  my  rede, 
And  guard  your  two  gems  with  a  scrupulous  heed, 
For  think  of  the  woeful  mishap  that  befell 
The  damsel  who  dropp'd  such  a  pair  in  the  well. 

That  poor  Little  Pitcher  would  gladly  have  flown 
And  have  given  her  Ears  to  have  let  well  alone ; 
For  when  she  got  home  her  Instructress  austere 
Dismiss'd  her  to  bed  with  a  Flea  in  her  Ear. 

What !    Tell  you  that  tale  ?    Come,  a  tale  with  a  sting 
Would  be  rather  too  much  of  an  excellent  thing  ! 
I  can't  point  a  moral,  or  sing  you  the  song — 
My  Years  are  too  short — and  your  Ears  are  too  long. 


ADVICE  TO  A  POET. 

DEAR  Poet,  never  rhyme  at  all ! 
But  if  you  must,  don't  tell  your  neighbours, 
Or  five  in  six,  who  cannot  scrawl, 

Will  dub  you  donkey  for  your  labours. 
This  epithet  may  seem  unjust 

To  you,  or  any  verse-begetter  : 
O  must  we  own — I  fear  we  must . — 
That  nine  in  ten  deserve  no  better. 

Then  let  them  bray  with  leathern  lungs, 

And  match  you  with  the  beast  that  grazes ; 
Or  wag  their  heads,  and  hold  their  tongues, 

Or  damn  you  with  the  faintest  praises. 
Be  patient,  you  will  get  your  due 

Of  honours — or  humiliations  : 
So  look  for  sympathy,  but  do 

Not  look  to  find  it  from  relations. 

When  strangers  first  approved  my  books 

My  kindred  marvell'd  what  the  praise  meant ; 

They  now  wear  more  respectful  looks, 
But  can't  get  over  their  amazement. 


154  ADVICE   TO   A    POET. 

Indeed,  they've  power  to  wound,  beyond 
That  wielded  by  the  fiercest  hater, 

For  all  the  time  they  are  so  fond — 
Which  makes  the  aggravation  greater. 


Most  warblers  now  but  half  express 

The  threadbare  thoughts  they  feebly  utter : 
If  they  attempted  nought — or  less  ! — 

They  would  not  sink,  and  gasp,  and  flutter. 
Fly  low  at  first,  then  mount,  and  win 

The  niche  for  which  the  town's  contesting ; 
And  never  mind  your  kith  and  kin — 

But  never  give  them  cause  for  jesting. 

Hold  Pegasus  in  hand — control 

A  vein  for  ornament  ensnaring ; 
Simplicity  is  yet  the  soul 

Of  all  that  Time  deems  worth  the  sparing. 
Long  lays  are  not  a  lively  sport, 

Reduce  your  own  to  half  a  quarter ; 
Unless  your  Public  thinks  them  short, 

Posterity  will  cut  them  shorter. 

I  look  on  bards  who  whine  for  praise 
With  feelings  of  profoundest  pity : 

They  hunger  for  the  Poet's  bays, 

And  swear  one's  waspish  when  one's  witty. 


ADVICE   TO   A   POET.  155 

The  critic's  lot  is  passing  hard — 

Between  ourselves,  I  think  reviewers, 

When  call'd  to  truss  a  crowing  bard, 
Should  not  be  sparing  of  the  skewers. 

We  all,  the  foolish  and  the  wise, 

Regard  our  verse  with  fascination, 
Through  asinine  paternal  eyes, 

And  hues  of  Fancy's  own  creation  ; 
Then  pray,  Sir,  pray  excuse  a  queer 

And  sadly  self-deluded  rhymer, 
Who  thinks  his  beer  (the  smallest  beer !) 

Has  all  the  gust  of  alt  hochhrimer. 

Dear  Bard,  the  Muse  is  such  a  minx — 

So  tricksy,  it  were  wrong  to  let  her 
Rest  satisfied  with  what  she  thinks 

Is  perfect :  try  and  teach  her  better. 
And  if  you'll  only  use  perchance 

But  half  the  pains  to  learn  that  we,  Sir, 
Have  used  to  hide  our  ignorance — 

How  very  clever  you  will  be,  Sir  ! 


NOW    FIRST    COLLECTED    AND 
PUBLISHED 


AN  ASPIRATION. 

Written  for  two  Woodcuts  in  "  A  Round  of  Days." 
(Christmas,  1865.) 

IASK'D  Miss  Di,  who  loves  her  sheep, 
To  look  at  this  delightful  peep 
Of  April  leafage,  pure  and  beamy  : 
A  pair  of  girls  in  hoops  and  nets 
Caress  a  pair  of  woolly  pets, 

And  all  is  young,  and  nice,  and  dreamy. 

Miss  Di  has  kindly  eyes  for  all 
That's  pretty,  quaint,  and  pastoral : 

Said  she,  "  These  ladies  sentimental 
Are  lucky,  in  a  world  of  shams, 
To  find  a  pair  of  luckless  lambs 

So  white,  and  so  extremely  gentle." 

I  heard  her  with  surprise  and  doubt, 
For  though  I  don't  much  care  about 

The  World  she  spoke  with  such  disdain  of, 
And  though  the  lamb  I  mostly  see 
Is  overdone,  it  seem'd  to  me 

That  these  had  little  to  complain  of. 


l6o  AN   ASPIRATION. 

When  beings  of  the  fairer  sex 

Arrange  their  white  arms  round  our  necks, 

We  are,  and  ought  to  be  enraptured — 
I  would  I  were  your  lamb,  Miss  Di, 
Or  even  that  poor  butterfly, 

With  some  small  hope  of  being  captured. 


GERALDINE  AND  I. 

"  Di  te,  Damasippe,  deaeque 
Verura  ob  consiliura  donent  tonsore." 

I  HAVE  talk'd  with  her  often  in  noonday  heat, 
We  have  walk'd  under  wintry  skies, 
Her  voice  is  the  dearest  voice,  and  sweet 

Is  the  light  in  her  gentle  eyes ; 
It  is  bliss  in  the  silent  woods,  among 

Gay  crowds,  or  in  any  place, 
To  mould  her  mind,  to  gaze  in  her  young 
Confiding  face. 

For  ever  may  roses  divinely  blow, 

And  wine-dark  pansies  charm 
By  the  prim  box  path  where  I  felt  the  glow 

Of  her  dimpled,  trusting  arm, 
And  the  sweep  of  her  silk  as  she  turn'd  and  smiled 

A  smile  of  coral  and  pearls ; 
The  breeze  was  in  love  with  the  darling  child, 
And  coax'd  her  curls. 

She  show'd  me  her  ferns  and  woodbine  sprays, 

Foxglove  and  jasmine  stars, 
A  mist  of  blue  in  the  beds,  a  blaze 

Of  red  in  the  celadon  jars  : 
M 


1 62  GERALDINE   AND    I. 

And  velvety  bees  in  convolvulus  bells, 

And  roses  of  bountiful  Spring. 
But  I  said — "  Though  roses  and  bees  have  spells, • 
They  have  thorn  and  sting." 

She  show'd  me  ripe  peaches  behind  a  net 

As  fine  as  her  veil,  and  fat 
Gold  fish  agape,  who  lazily  met 

For  her  crumb — I  grudged  them  that ! 
A  squirrel,  some  rabbits  with  long  lop  ears, 

And  guinea-pigs,  tortoiseshell — wee ; 
And  I  told  her  that  eloquent  truth  inheres 
In  all  we  see. 

I  lifted  her  doe  by  its  lops;  said  I, 

"  Even  here  deep  meaning  lies, — 
Why  have  squirrels  these  ample  tails,  and  why 

Have  rabbits  these  prominent  eyes  ?  " 
She  smiled  and  said,  as  she  twirl'd  her  veil, 

"  For  some  nice  little  cause,  no  doubt — 
If  you  lift  a  guinea-pig  up  by  the  tail 
His  eyes  drop  out !  " 

1868. 


HER  LETTERS. 

Written  for  a  Woodcut  in  "  Pictures  of  Society." 
(Christmas,  1865.) 

MY  lady  fair,  my  lady  fair, — 
I'm  very  much  perplex' d  concerning 
Your  modish  dress,  your  pensive  air, 
And  all  those  letters  you  are  burning. 

Have  sorrows  come  ?     Has  pleasure  sped  ? 

Is  earthly  bliss  an  empty  bubble  ? 
Is  some  one  dull,  or  something  dead  ? 

O  may  I,  mayn't  I  share  your  trouble  ? 

The  letter  dropping  from  that  hand,— 

The  hand  on  which  that  cheek  is  leaning,  — 

The  papers  torn, — the  glowing  brand, — 
All,  all  are  eloquent  with  meaning. 

Perhaps  the  rain  has  dash'd  your  day, 

Has  Bulky  breathed  his  last  fond  twitter  ? 

Or  has  the  Loved  One  gone  away, 
And  was  he — O  too  sad  to  quit  her  ? 


164  HER    LETTERS. 

She  reads  her  letter  all  alone  ! 

Ah,  no — he  never  meant  to  slight  her  ; 
She's  very  sad  for  him.     I  own 

I'm  half  prepared  to  hate  that  writer  ! 

Sweet  lady,  so  unkindly  starr'd, 

Forgive  my  frank  and  friendly  ardour, 

But  if  your  fate  is  very  hard, 

O  think  that  mine  is  even  harder ! 

Ay,  so  it  is,  and  is  it  fair  ? 

Poor  men  (your  elders  and  your  betters  !) 
Who  can't  look  pretty  in  despair, 

Feel  quite  as  sad  about  their  Letters. 


THE  OLD  SHEPHERD. 

Written  for  Two  Woodcuts  in  "  A  Round  of  Days." 
(Christmas,  1865.) 

I.    ON    THE    HILLS. 

THE  vapours  glitter  on  the  hill, 
The  morning  airs  are  soft, 
There's  music  in  the  merry  rill, 

And  music  in  the  croft. 
But  turn  from  what  is  gay  and  green 
To  gaze  on  this  pathetic  scene. 

The  silent  tarn  is  frozen  dry, 

The  hills  return  no  sound, 
There's  winter  in  the  dappled  sky, 

And  winter  on  the  ground. 
The  shepherd  knows  the  scene  austere, 
And  when  the  wind  is  temper'd  here. 


1 66  THE  OLD  SHEPHERD. 


AT  HOME. 

I  grudge  that  lonely  man  his  crook ; 

It  seems  no  idle  whim, 
That  if  he  reads  in  Nature's  book, 

Her  voice  has  been  to  him 
A  spiritual  life,  to  sway 
And  cheer  him  on  his  endless  way. 

O  fair  are  these  sequestered  lives, 

Their  labours  never  soil, 
Thrice  blest  is  he  who  thus  derives 

A  dignity  from  toil ; 
And  He  who  loves  us  all  will  keep 
The  shepherd  who  so  loves  his  sheep. 


ST.  JAMES'S  STREET. 

(A   GRUMBLE.) 

ST.  James's  Street,  of  classic  fame  ! 
The  finest  people  throng  it ! 
St.  James's  Street  ?     I  know  the  name, 

I  think  I've  pass'd  along  it. 
Why,  that's  where  Sacharissa  sigh'd 

When  Waller  read  his  ditty ; 
Where  Byron  lived,  and  Gibbon  died, 
And  Alvanley  was  witty. 

A  noted  street.     It  skirts  the  Park 

Where  Pepys  once  took  his  pastime  ; 
Come,  gaze  on  fifty  men  of  mark, 

And  then  recall  the  fast  time ! 
The  plats  at  White's,  the  play  at  Crock's, 

The  bumpers  to  Miss  Gunning ; 
The  bonhomie  of  Charlie  Fox, 

And  Selwyn's  ghastly  funning. 

The  dear  old  street  of  clubs  and  cribs, 
As  north  and  south  it  stretches, 

Still  seems  to  smack  of  Rolliad  squibs, 
And  Gillray's  fiercer  sketches ; 


1 68  ST.  JAMES'S  STREET. 

The  quaint  old  dress,  the  grand  old  style, 

The  mots,  the  racy  stories  ; 
The  wine,  the  dice,  the  wit,  the  bile, 

The  hate  of  Whigs  and  Tories. 


At  dusk,  when  I  am  strolling  there, 

Dim  forms  will  rise  around  me ; 
Lepel  flits  past  me  in  her  chair, 

And  Congreve's  airs  astound  me  ! 
And  once  Nell  Gwynne,  a  frail  young  sprite, 

Look'd  kindly  when  I  met  her  ; 
I  shook  my  head,  perhaps, — but  quite 

Forgot  to  quite  forget  her. 

The  street  is  still  a  lively  tomb 

For  rich,  and  gay,  and  clever ; 
The  crops  of  dandies  bud,  and  bloom, 

And  die  as  fast  as  ever. 
Now  gilded  youth  loves  cutty  pipes, 

And  slang  the  worse  for  wearing  : 
It  can't  approach  its  prototypes 

In  taste,  or  tone,  or  bearing. 

In  Brummell's  day  of  buckle  shoes, 

Starch  cravats,  and  roll  collars, 
They'd  fight,  and  woo,  and  bet — and  lose 

Like  gentlemen  and  scholars  : 


ST.  JAMES'S  STREET.  169 

I  like  young  men  to  go  the  pace, 

I  half  forgive  old  Rapid ; — 
These  louts  disgrace  their  name  and  race — 

So  vicious  and  so  vapid  ! 

Worse  times  may  come.     Bon  ton,  indeed, 

Will  then  be  quite  forgotten, 
And  all  we  much  revere  will  speed 

From  ripe  to  worse  than  rotten ; 
Then  grass  will  sprout  between  yon  stones, 

And  owls  will  roost  at  Boodle's, 
And  Echo  will  hurl  back  the  tones 

Of  screaming  Yankee  Doodles. 

I  like  the  haunts  of  old  Cockaigne, 

Where  wit  and  wealth  were  squander'd, 
The  halls  that  tell  of  hoop  and  train, 

Where  grace  and  rank  have  wander'd, 
The  halls  where  ladies  fair  and  leal 

First  ventured  to  adore  me  ! — 
And  something  of  the  like  I  feel 

For  this  old  street  before  me. 

1867. 


ROTTEN  ROW. 

I  HOPE  I'm  fond  of  much  that's  good, 
As  well  as  much  that's  gay ; 
I'd  like  the  country  if  I  could, 

I  like  the  park  in  May  : 
And  when  I  ride  in  Rotten  Row, 
I  wonder  why  they  call'd  it  so. 

A  lively  scene  on  turf  and  road, 

The  crowd  is  bravely  drest : 
The  Ladies'  Mile  has  overflow'd, 

The  seats  are  in  request : 
The  nimble  air,  so  warm  and  clear, 
Can  hardly  stir  a  ringlet  here. 

I'll  halt  beneath  the  pleasant  trees, 

And  drop  my  bridle-rein, 
And,  quite  alone,  indulge  at  ease 

The  philosophic  vein : 
I'll  moralise  on  all  I  see — 
I  think  it  all  was  made  for  me  ! 


ROTTEN    ROW.  171 

Forsooth,  and  on  a  nicer  spot 

The  sunbeam  never  shines ; 
Young  ladies  here  can  talk  and  trot 

With  statesmen  and  divines : 
Could  I  have  chosen,  I'd  have  been 
A  Duke,  a  Beauty,  or  a  Dean ! 


What  grooms  !  what  gallant  gentlemen  ! 

What  well-appointed  hacks  ! 
What  glory  in  their  pace — and  then 

What  Beauty  on  their  backs  ! 
My  Pegasus  would  never  flag 
If  weighted  as  my  lady's  nag. 

But  where  is  now  the  courtly  troop 
That  once  rode  laughing  by  ? 

I  miss  the  curls  of  Cantilupe, 
The  smile  of  Lady  Di : 

They  all  could  laugh  from  night  to  morn, 

And  Time  has  laugh'd  them  all  to  scorn. 

I  then  could  Irolic  in  the  van 
With  dukes  and  dandy  earls ; 

I  then  was  thought  a  nice  young  man 
By  rather  nice  young  girls  : 

I've  half  a  mind  to  join  Miss  Browne, 

And  try  one  canter  up  and  down. 


172  ROTTEN    ROW. 

Ah,  no  !  I  '11  linger  here  awhile, 
And  dream  of  days  of  yore  ; 

For  me  bright  eyes  have  lost  the  smile, 
The  sunny  smile  they  wore  : — 

Perhaps  they  say,  what  I'll  allow, 

That  I'm  not  quite  so  handsome  now. 

1867. 


A  NICE  CORRESPONDENT! 

THE  glow  and  the  glory  are  plighted 
To  darkness,  for  evening  is  come  ; 
The  lamp  in  Glebe  Cottage  is  lighted, 

The  birds  and  the  sheep-bells  are  dumb. 
I'm  alone  at  my  casement,  for  Pappy 

Is  summon'd  to  dinner  to  Kew  : 
I'm  alone,  my  dear  Fred,  but  I'm  happy — 
I'm  thinking  of  you. 

I  wish  you  were  here.     Were  I  duller 
Than  dull,  you'd  be  dearer  than  dear ; 

I  am  drest  in  your  favourite  colour — 
Dear  Fred,  how  I  wish  you  were  here  ! 

I  am  wearing  my  lazuli  necklace, 
The  necklace  you  fasten'd  askew  ! 

Was  there  ever  so  rude  or  so  reckless 
A  darling  as  you  ? 

I  want  you  to  come  and  pass  sentence 
On  two  or  three  books  with  a  plot ; 

Of  course  you  know  "  Janet's  Repentance  ?" 
I'm  reading  Sir  Waverley  Scott, 


174  A  NICE  CORRESPONDENT! 

The  story  of  Edgar  and  Lucy, 

How  thrilling,  romantic,  and  true ; 
The  Master  (his  bride  was  a  goosey  !) 
Reminds  me  of  you. 


To-day,  in  my  ride,  I've  been  crowning 
The  beacon  ;  its  magic  still  lures, 

For  up  there  you  discoursed  about  Browning, 
That  stupid  old  Browning  of  yours. 

His  vogue  and  his  verve  are  alarming, 
I'm  anxious  to  give  him  his  due ; 

But,  Fred,  he's  not  nearly  so  charming 
A  poet  as  you. 

I  heard  how  you  shot  at  The  Beeches, 
I  saw  how  you  rode  Chanticleer, 

I  have  read  the  report  of  your  speeches, 
And  echo'd  the  echoing  cheer. 

There's  a  whisper  of  hearts  you  are  breaking, 
I  envy  their  owners,  I  do ! 

Small  marvel  that  Fortune  is  making 
Her  idol  of  you. 

Alas  for  the  world,  and  its  dearly 
Bought  triumph,  and  fugitive  bliss  ! 

Sometimes  I  half  wish  I  were  merely 
A  plain  or  a  penniless  miss ; 


A  NICE  CORRESPONDENT!  175 

But,  perhaps,  one  is  best  with  a  measure 

Of  pelf,  and  I'm  not  sorry,  too, 
That  I'm  pretty,  because  it's  a  pleasure, 
My  dearest,  to  you. 

Your  whim  is  for  frolic  and  fashion, 

Your  taste  is  for  letters  and  art, 
This  rhyme  is  the  commonplace  passion 

That  glows  in  a  fond  woman's  heart. 
Lay  it  by  in  a  dainty  deposit 

For  relics,  we  all  have  a  few  ! 
Love,  some  day  they'll  print  it,  because  it 
Was  written  to  you. 

1868. 


THE  SILENT  POOL. 

Written  for  Two  Woodcuts  in  "  A  Round  of  Days." 
(Christmas,  1865.) 

A    WINTRY  sky  at  eventide, 
XJL     And  doleful  woods.     My  faith,  yon  lassie 
Was  rash  to  wait  alone  beside 

The  silent  pool, — so  still  and  glassy. 

It  looks  far  deeper  than  the  sea, 

More  ghostly  than  the  lake  of  Charon  ; 

The  sudden  bank  appears  to  me 

A  fearsome  spot  to  nurse  despair  on. 

She  watch'd  and  wept.     To  meet  him  here 
She  climb'd  the  stile,  and  cross'd  the  stubble ; 

He's  come  at  last  to  dry  her  tear, 
And  ease  her  of  her  tender  trouble. 

They've  met.     Their  greeting  is,  indeed, 
The  fondest  of  young  Love's  embraces ; 

The  blessed  moments  lightly  speed, 
Love — only  Love,  can  see  their  faces. 


THE    SILENT   POOL.  177 

O  happy  love,  without  alloy — 

O  happy  youth,  that  never  closes — 
O  happy  eyes,  that  veil  their  joy — 

And  O,  sweet  lips,  more  sweet  than  roses  ! 

Most  people  like  to  bill  and  coo, 

And  some  have  done  it  for  the  last  time, 

So,  blissful  pair,  we  envy  you 

Your  pleasant  and  improving  pastime. 

For  life  is  toil,  and  age  is  bane 

When  all  we  love  is  dead  or  missing; 

But  if  we  see  this  Pool  again, 

You'll  still  be  here,  and  still  be  kissing. 


MISGIVINGS. 

Written  for  a  Woodcut  in  "  Pictures  of  Society." 
(Christmas,  1865.) 

THE  lambs  begin  their  wonted  game 
When  skies  are  fair  and  fields  are  vernal ; 
And  then  young  girls  would  do  the  same, 
And  laugh  at  lambs  with  tie  maternal. 

Away  they  run  by  pool  and  glade, 
The  air  is  glad  with  breezy  laughter ; 

Their  anxious  mothers  look  dismay'd, 
And  do  their  best  to  follow  after. 

Poor  Lady,  you  are  sad  indeed  ! 

Your  tender  mother's  heart  is  bleeding  ; 
Your  lamb  is  off  to  paths  that  lead — 

You  know  not  where  those  paths  are  leading ! 

Your  lambkin  pined  for  stronger  food 
Than  homely  care,  and  home  caressing ; 

She's  gone  !     You  gave  her  all  you  could — 
A  bright  blue  ribbon,  and  your  blessing. 


MISGIVINGS.  179 

Then  let  her  sport  where  roses  blow, 

And  laugh  away  her  sunny  hours ; 
And  if  she  pluck  some  weeds,  we  know 

They  fade,  ay,  faster  than  her  flowers. 

She  does  not  need  the  shepherd's  crook ; 

Her  griefs  are  only  passing  shadow ; 
She'll  bask  beside  the  purest  brook, 

And  nibble  in  the  greenest  meadow. 

She'll  tarry  but  a  little  while, 

I  see  her  now  returning  hither 
With  wreathed  brow  and  rosy  smile — 

Perhaps  she  brings  a  lambkin  with  her ! 


AN  OLD  BUFFER. 

BUFFER. — A  cushion  or  apparatus,  with  strong  springs,  to  deaden  the 
buff  or  ccncussion  between  a  moving  body  and  one  on  which  it  strikes. — 
Webster's  English  Dictionary. 

AKNOCK-ME-DOWN  sermon,  and  worthy  01 
Birch," 

Say  I  to  my  wife,  as  we  toddle  from  church  ; 
"  Convincing  indeed  "  is  the  lady's  remark ; 
"  How  logical,  too,  on  the  size  of  the  Ark ! " 
Then  Blossom  cut  in,  without  begging  our  pardons, 
"  Pa,  was  it  as  big  as  the  'Logical  Gardens  ?  " 

"  Miss  Blossom,"  said  I,  to  my  dearest  of  dearies, 
"  Papa  disapproves  of  nonsensical  queries ; 
The  Ark  was  an  Ark,  and  had  people  to  build  it, 
Enough  that  we  read  Noah  built  it  and  fill'd  it : 
Mamma  does  not  ask  how  he  caught  his  opossums  " 
— Said  she,  "That  remark  is  as  foolish  as  Blossom's." 

Thus  talking  and  walking  the  time  is  beguiled 
By  my  orthodox  wife  and  my  sceptical  child ; 
I  act  as  their  buffer  whenever  I  can, 
And  you  see  I'm  of  use  as  a  family-man. 


AN    OLD    BUFFER.  l8l 

I  parry  their  blows,  and  I've  plenty  to  do — 
I  think  that  the  child's  are  the  worst  of  the  two  ! 

My  wife  has  a  healthy  aversion  for  sceptics, 
She  vows  that  they're  bad  when  they're  only  dyspeptics ; 
May  Blossom  prove  neither  the  one  nor  the  other, 
But  do  what  she's  bid  by  her  excellent  mother. — 
She  thinks  I'm  a  Solon,  perhaps,  if  I  huff  her, 
She'll   think   I'm   a — something  that's   denser  and 
tougher ! 

MAMMA,  loquitur. 

"  If  Blossom's  a  sceptic,  or  saucy,  I'll  search, 
And  I'll  find  her  a  wholesome  corrective  in  Birch." 


TO    LINA    OSWALD. 
(AGED  FIVE  YEARS.) 

I  TUMBLE  out  of  bed  betimes 
To  write  my  love  these  little  rhymes ; 
And  meet  the  hour,  and  meet  the  place 
To  bless  her  happy  morning  face. 
I  send  her  all  my  heart  can  store ; 
I  seem  to  see  her  as  before. 

Again  she  stands  beneath  the  boughs, 
Reproves  the  pup,  and  feeds  the  cows  ; 
Unvex'd  by  rule,  unscared  by  ill, 
She  wanders  at  her  "  own  sweet  will ;" 
For  what  grave  fiat  could  confine 
My  little  charter'd  libertine, 
Yet  free  from  feeling  or  from  seeing 
The  burthen  of  her  moral  being  ? 

But  change  must  come,  and  forms  and  dyes 
Will  change  before  her  changing  eyes ; 
She'll  learn  to  blush,  and  hope,  and  fear — 
And  where  shall  I  be  then,  my  dear  ? 


TO   LINA   OSWALD.  183 

Little  gossip,  set  apart 
But  one  small  corner  of  your  heart  j 
There  still  is  one  not  quite  employed, 
So  let  me  find  and  fill  that  void ; 
Then  run  and  jump,  and  laugh  and  play, 
But  love  me  though  I'm  far  away. 

The  world  would  lose  its  finest  joys 
Without  its  little  girls  and  boys ; 
Their  careless  glee,  and  simple  ruth, 
And  trust,  and  innocence,  and  truth, 
— Ah,  what  would  your  poor  poet  do 
Without  such  little  folk  as  you  ? 

BROOMHALL,  September,  1868. 


ON  "  A  PORTRAIT  OF  A  LADY." 

Vide  Royal  Academy  Catalogue. 

BY   THE   PAINTER. 

SHE  is  good,  for  she  must  have  a  guileless  mind 
With  that  noble,  trusting  air ; 
A  rose  with  a  passionate  heart  is  twined 

In  her  crown  of  golden  hair. 
Some  envy  the  cross  that  caressingly  dips 

In  her  bosom,  and  some  had  died 
For  the  promise  of  bliss  on  her  ripe  red  lips, 
And  her  thousand  charms  beside. 

She  is  lovely  and  good ;  she  has  peerless  eyes, 

A  haunting  shape.     She  stands 
In  a  blossoming  croft,  under  kindling  skies, 

The  weirdest  of  faery  lands  : 
There  are  sapphire  hills  by  the  far-off  seas. 

Grave  laurels,  and  tender  limes  ; 
They  tremble  and  glow  in  the  morning  breeze, 

— My  Beauty  is  up  betimes  ! 


ON    "A    PORTRAIT    OF    A    LADY."  185 

A  bevy  of  idlers  press  around, 

To  wonder,  and  wish,  and  loll ; 
"  Now  who  is  the  painter,  and  where  has  he  found 

A  woman  we  all  extol, 
With  her  rosebud  mouth,  and  her  candid  brow, 

And  the  bloom  of  bygone  days  ?  " 
How  natural  sounds  their  worship,  how 

Impertinent  seems  their  praise  ! 

I  stand  aloof;  I  can  well  afford 

To  pardon  the  babble  and  crush 
As  they  praise  a  work  (do  I  need  reward  ?) 

That  has  grown  beneath  my  brush. 
My  thoughts  are  away  to  that  happy  day, 

A  few  short  weeks  agone, 
When  we  left  the  games,  and  the  dance,  to  stray 

Through  the  dewy  flowers,  alone. 

My  feet  are  again  among  flowers  divine, 

Away  from  the  noise  and  glare, 
When  I  kiss'd  her  mouth,  and  her  lips  press' d  mine, 

And  I  fasten'd  that  rose  in  her  hair. 
I  gathered  it  wet  for  my  own  sweet  pet 

As  we  whispered  and  walk'd  apart ; 
She  gave  me  that  rose,  it  is  fragrant  yet, 

And  its  home  is  near  my  heart. 

1868. 


THE  JESTER'S  MORAL. 

"  I  wish  that  I  could  run  away 

From  House,  and  Court,  and  Levee  : 
Where  bearded  men  appear  to-day, 
Just  Eton  boys  grown  heavy." 

W.  M.  PRAED. 

IS  human  life  a  pleasant  game 
That  gives  the  palm  to  all? 
A  fight  for  fortune,  or  for  fame, 

A  struggle,  and  a  fall  ? 
Who  views  the  Past,  and  all  he  prized, 

With  tranquil  exultation  ? 
And  who  can  say,  I've  realised 
My  fondest  aspiration  ? 

Alas,  not  one  !  No,  rest  assured 

That  all  are  prone  to  quarrel 
With  Fate,  when  worms  destroy  their  gourd, 

Or  mildew  spoils  their  laurel : 
The  prize  may  come  to  cheer  our  lot, 

But  all  too  late  ;  and  granted 
'Tis  even  better,  still  'tis  not 

Exactly  what  we  wanted. 


THE  JESTER'S  MORAL.  187 

My  schoolboy  time  !     I  wish  to  praise 

That  bud  of  brief  existence, 
The  vision  of  my  younger  days 

Now  trembles  in  the  distance. 
An  envious  vapour  lingers  here, 

And  there  I  find  a  chasm ; 
But  much  remains,  distinct  and  clear, 

To  sink  enthusiasm. 


Such  thoughts  just  now  disturb  my  soul 

With  reason  good,  for  lately 
I  took  the  train  to  Marley-knoll, 

And  cross'd  the  fields  to  Mately. 
I  found  old  Wheeler  at  his  gate, 

Who  used  rare  sport  to  show  me : 
My  Mentor  once  on  springe  and  bait — 

But  Wheeler  did  not  know  me. 


"  Goodlord  ! "  at  last  exclaim'd  the  churl, 

"  Are  you  the  little  chap,  sir, 
What  used. to  train  his  hair  in  curl, 

And  wore  a  scarlet  cap,  sir?" 
And  then  he  took  to  fill  in  blanks, 

And  conjure  up  old  faces  ; 
And  talk  of  well-remember'd  pranks 

In  half-forgotten  places. 


1 88  THE  JESTER'S  MORAL. 

It  pleased  the  man  to  tell  his  brief 

And  rather  mournful  story, 
Old  Bliss's  school  had  come  to  grief, 

And  Bliss  had  "  gone  to  glory." 
His  trees  were  fell'd,  his  house  was  razed, 

And  what  less  keenly  pain'd  me, 
A  venerable  donkey  grazed 

Exactly  where  he  caned  me. 


And  where  have  all  my  playmates  sped, 

Whose  ranks  were  once  so  serried  ? 
Why  some  are  wed,  and  some  are  dead, 

And  some  are  only  buried ; 
Frank  Petre,  erst  so  full  of  fun, 

Is  now  St.  Blaise's  prior, 
And  Travers,  the  attorney's  son, 

Is  member  for  the  shire. 


Dull  maskers  we  !     Life's  festival 

Enchants  the  blithe  new-comer ; 
But  seasons  change,  then  wtere  are  all 

The  friendships  of  our  summer  ? 
Wan  pilgrims  flit  athwart  our  track, 

Cold  looks  attend  the  meeting, 
We  only  greet  them,  glancing  back, 

Or  pass  without  a  greeting  ! 


THE  JESTER'S  MORAL.  189 

I  owe  old  Bliss  some  rubs,  but  pride 

Constrains  me  to  postpone  'em, — 
He  taught  me  something,  ere  he  died, 

About  nil  nisi  bonum. 
I've  met  with  wiser,  better  men, 

But  I  forgive  him  wholly ; 
Perhaps  his  jokes  were  sad,  but  then 

He  used  to  storm  so  drolly. 


I  still  can  laugh,  is  still  my  boast, 

But  mirth  has  sounded  gayer ; 
And  which  provokes  my  laughter  most, 

The  preacher,  or  the  player? 
Alack,  I  cannot  laugh  at  what 

Once  made  us  laugh  so  freely, 
For  Nestroy  and  Grassot  are  not — 

And  where  is  Mr.  Keeley  ? 


O  shall  I  run  away  from  hence, 

And  dress  and  shave  like  Crusoe  ? 
Or  join  St.  Blaise?     No,  Common  Sense 

Forbid  that  I  should  do  so. 
I'd  sooner  dress  your  Little  Miss 

As  Paulet  shaves  his  poodles  ! 
As  soon  propose  for  Betsy  Bliss, 

Or  get  proposed  for  Boodle's. 


190  THE    JESTERS    MORAL. 

We  prate  of  Life's  illusive  dyes, 

And  yet  fond  hope  misleads  us ; 
We  all  believe  we  near  the  prize, 

Till  some  fresh  dupe  succeeds  us ! 
A  bright  reward,  forsooth  !     And  though 

No  mortal  has  attain'd  it, 
I  still  hope  on,  for  well  I  know 

That  Love  has  thus  ordain'd  it. 

PARIS,  November,  1864. 

(Published  in  1865.) 


NOTES. 


NOTE  TO  "A  HUMAN  SKULL." 

"  In  our  last  month's  Magazine  you  may  remember  there 
were  some  verses  about  a  portion  of  a  skeleton.  Did  you 
remark  how  the  poet  and  present  proprietor  of  the  human  skull 
at  once  settled  the  sex  of  it,  and  determined  off-hand  that  it 
must  have  belonged  to  a  woman  ?  Such  skulls  are  locked  up 
in  many  gentlemen's  hearts  and  memories.  Bluebeard,  you 
know,  had  a  whole  museum  of  them — as  that  imprudent  little 
last  wife  of  his  found  out  to  her  cost.  And,  on  the  other  hand, 
a  lady,  we  suppose,  would  select  hers  of  the  sort  which  had 
carried  beards  when  in  the  flesh." — The  Adventures  of  Philip 
on  his  Way  through  the  World.  Comhill  Magazine,  January -, 
1861. 

NOTE  TO  "To  MY  OLD  FRIEND  POSTUMUS." 
The  Well-beloved !— B.  L.  died  26th  July,  1853. 

NOTE  TO   "GLYCERE." 

Un  Vieittard.      Jeune  fille  au  riant  visage, 

Que  cherches-tu  sous  cet  ombrage  ? 
La  Jeune  Fille.  Des  fleurs  pour  orner  mes  cheveux. 

Je  me  rends  au  prochain  village. 
Avec  le  printemps  et  ses  feux, 
Bergeres,  bergers  amoureux 

Vont  danser  sur  1'herbe  nouvelle. 

Deja  le  sistre  les  appelle  : 
Glycere  est  sans  doute  avec  eux. 

De  ces  hameaux  c'est  la  plus  belle  ; 
Je  veux  PefFacer  a  leurs  yeux  : 

Voyez  ces  fleurs,  c'est  un  presage. 


IQ2  NOTES. 

Le  Vieillard.       Sais-tu  quel  est  ce  lieu  sauvage  ? 
La  Jeune  Fille.  Non,  et  tout  m'y  semble  nouveau. 
Le  Vieillard.       La  repose,  jeune  etrangere, 

La  plus  belle  de  ce  hameau. 
Ces  fleurs  pour  effacer  Glycere 

Tu  les  cueilles  sur  son  tombeau  ! 

BfiRANGER. 


NOTE  TO  "  To  MY  MISTRESS." 

"  M.  Deschanel  quotes  the  following  charming  little  poem  by 
Corneille,  addressed  to  a  young  lady  who  had  not  been  quite 
civil  to  him.  He  says  with  truth — '  Le  sujet  est  leger,  le 
rhythme  court,  mais  on  y  retrouve  la  fierte  de  1'homme,  et  aussi 
1'ampleur  du  tragique.' 

'  Marquise,  si  mon  visage 
A  quelques  traits  un  peu  vieux, 
Souvenez-vous,  qu'a  mon  age 
Vous  ne  vaudrez  guere  mieux. 

*  Le  temps  aux  plus  belles  choses 
Se  plait  a  faire  un  affront,* 

Et  saura  faner  vos  roses 
Comme  il  a  ride  mon  front. 

'  Le  meme  cours  des  planetes 
Regie  nos  jours  et  nos  nuits  ; 
On  m'a  vu  ce  que  vous  etes, 
Vous  serez  ce  que  je  suis. 

*  Cependant  j'ai  quelques  charmes 
Qui  sont  assez  eclatants 

Pour  n'avoir  pas  trop  d 'alarm es 
De  ces  ravages  du  temps. 

*  Vous  en  avez  qu'on  adore, 
Mais  ceux  que  vous  meprisez 
Pourraient  bien  durer  encore 
Quand  ceux-la  seront  uses. 


NOTES.  193 

*  Us  pourront  sauver  la  gloire 
Des  yeux  qui  me  semblent  doux, 
Et  dans  mille  ans  faire  croire 
Ce  qu'il  me  plaira  de  vous. 

'  Chez  cette  race  nouvelle 
Ou  j'aurai  quelque  credit, 
Vous  ne  passerez  pour  belle 
Qu'autant  que  je  1'aurai  dit. 

*  Pensez-y,  belle  Marquise, 
Quoiqu'un  grison  fasse  effroi, 
II  vaut  qu'on  le  courtise 
Quand  il  est  fait  comme  moi.' 

The  last  four  stanzas  in  particular  are  brimful  of  spirit,  and  the 
mixture  of  pride  and  vanity  which  they  display  is  remarkable." 
— Saturday  Review,  July  2$rd,  1864. 

NOTE  TO  "THE  ROSE  AND  THE  RING." 

Mr.  Thackeray  spent  a  portion  of  the  winter  of  1854  in  Rome, 
and  while  there  he  wrote  his  little  Christmas  story  called  "  The 
Rose  and  the  Ring."  He  was  a  great  friend  of  the  distin- 
guished American  sculptor,  Mr.  Story,  and  was  a  frequent 
visitor  at  his  house.  I  have  heard  Mr.  Story  speak  with  emotion 
of  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Thackeray  to  his  little  daughter,  then 
recovering  from  a  severe  illness,  and  he  told  me  that  Mr.  Thackeray 
used  to  come  nearly  every  day  to  read  to  Miss  Story,  often 
bringing  portions  of  his  manuscript  with  him. 

Five  or  six  years  afterwards  Miss  Story  showed  me  a  very 
pretty  copy  of  "The  Rose  and  the  Ring,"  which  Mr.  Thackeray 
had  sent  her,  with  a  facetious  sketch  of  himself  in  the  act  of 
presenting  her  with  the  work. 

NOTE  TO  "SiR  GYLES  GYLES." 

I  have  reprinted  these  burlesque  lines,  and  some  others  of  the 
same  character,  although  I  confess  they  are  now  eclipsed  by  the 
excellent  verses  of  Mr.  Henry  Leigh  and  Mr.  W.  S.  Gilbert, 
whose  best  poems  are,  in  their  way,  as  good  as  the  "  Rejected 
Addresses,"  and  will  survive  many  works  of  far  greater  pre- 
tension. 

O 


IQ4  NOTES. 

NOTE. 

The  kind  of  verse  which  I  have  attempted  in  some  of  the  pieces 
in  this  volume  was  in  repute  during  the  era  of  Swift  and  Prior, 
and  again  during  the  earlier  years  of  this  century.  Afterwards  it 
fell  into  comparative  neglect,  but  has  now  regained  some  of 
its  old  popularity. 

Suckling,  Swift,  Prior,  Cowper,  Landor,  Thomas  Moore, 
Praed,  and  Thackeray  may  be  considered  its  representative 
men,  and  each  has  his  peculiar  merit.  We  admire  Suckling 
for  his  gusto,  and  careless,  natural  grace,  Swift  for  his  mordant 
humour,  and  Prior  for  his  sprightly  wit.  Cowper  was  a  master 
of  tender  and  playful  irony ;  Moore,  as  a  satirist,  was  a  very 
expert  swordsman,  and,  although  possessing  little  real  senti- 
ment, he  had  wit  and  sparkling  fancy  in  abundance.  Praed 
possessed  a  fancy  less  wild  than  Moore,  while  his  sympathies 
were  narrower  than  Thackeray's,  and  his  pathos  and  humour 
were  inferior.  He  had  plenty  of  wit,  however,  and  a  highly 
idiomatic,  most  finished  style,  an  exquisite  turn  of  expression, 
and,  in  his  own  vein,  has  never  been,  and  it  may  be  safely 
affirmed,  never  can  be  excelled.  Nevertheless,  the  same  objec- 
tion may  be  made  against  the  poetry  of  Praed  which  might  be 
brought  against  the  poetry  of  Pope,  namely,  that  there  is  little 
relief  to  his  picture,  because  all  is  so  sharply  cut,  and  so  distinct. 
There  are  no  peeps  of  tender  blue  sky  or  half-defined  distances 
in  his  landscape. 

Landor  was  rather  wanting  in  humour  and  variety,  but  he 
atoned  for  it  by  his  pathos,  and  his  pellucid  and  classical  style. 
The  best  of  his  little  poems  are  as  clearly  cut  as  antique  gems, 
and  appear  to  me  to  be  almost  the  perfection  of  poetic  ex- 
pression. 

It  is  with  diffidence  that  I  again  offer  my  own  trifling  volume  to 
the  public.  No  one  is  so  painfully  aware  as  myself  of  its  many 
shortcomings,  of  its  extreme  insignificance,  and  of  its  great  in- 
completeness. If  I  have  included  pieces  which  ought  to  have 
been  consigned  to  the  dust-bin  of  immediate  oblivion,  I  hope 
for  forgiveness. 

THE  END. 


PRINTED   BY  VIRTUE   AND   CO.,   CITY  ROAD,   LONDON. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUS  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


